Love Your Hot Sauce
by Daylo
Summary: I DID IT! New Chapter Dance! I revamped the entire story, actually. There's still the occasional grammatical error though. SephTiff, YuffVin, and a cup of humor.
1. The Reject

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Introductory Chapter One: The Reject**

"Pardon my intrusion," a maid opened the sliding door a few inches, "There is a summons for you, Lady."

Yuffie was busy standing like a giant T as her chambermaids tied intricate knots at the sides of her ceremonial dress. She turned her head slowly, the ornaments in her hair jingling. "Hey Hana, come in. Tell me what you think."

Hana did as she was told and after shutting the door behind her, she tried to remain as respectful as possible, her head low. "Lady Wutai, the summons is from The Elders and they were very insistent you make a hasty appearance."

"Sure sure. What do you think of these jade fastenings?"

Hana sighed, but didn't raise her head. She didn't need to. "They are lovely. A true work of art."

Yuffie smiled, "My mother carved them. Every Lady is supposed to add to the dress for their descendents. I think I'll use jade, too."

"Very good Lady, but the meeting. . ?"

"Oh all right, I'm coming." Yuffie carefully stepped down into her slippers. Custom made slippers with a blue dragon design and extra padding. She could get used to this pampered stuff. Life here did have a downside: the unexpected summons, etiquette lessons, political discussions, trade meetings, and various ceremonies were seriously grating on her free spirit. But she had to be an adult sometime; a fatal truth she could no longer ignore.

Yuffie followed her maid to the top floor where Hana opened the door and stepped aside (Hana insisted on this at all times) and shut it behind her. All nine Elders were assembled, looking regal but not as formally dressed as she. This caused her to pause; Yuffie's ceremony was only two hours away.

Nonetheless, she took a seat on a pillow before the council, her hands extended to receive a roll of parchment. The Seal of Leviathan on the outside rang warning bells, but Yuffie maintained an outer image of calm. Her fingers rubbed against the texture, wondering if this was her first official statement as Lady Wutai. Her hair fell like a dark veil in her face, hiding gray eyes as they wandered from the elders to her gift. She hoped it was interesting. Please, please be interesting. Please, not another boring history scroll. The ninja always scoffed at the bizarre rambling of her teachers and elders, the weird fixation for what once was instead of what is now.

She was tired of her people being wrapped up in the past. Wutains that concentrated on their long gone glory treated Yuffie differently. They would only notice her great bloodline and her silver gaze—the legendary trademark of the Kisaragi clan. Since the beginning of written history, everyone believed silver eyes were the emblems of their ancestors receiving a blessing from the gods. So they stare at her with expectations and disappointments, but Yuffie was never one to pay much attention. They cared about tradition and history. Those were not things a person could touch, see, or talk with. What was the point in acknowledging people like that?

After the three-day festival, her first order of business would be the future. Fighters knew about Wutai because it was the martial arts hotspot, but nothing more. Yuffie figured it would take five to ten years, but she would put Wutai on the map. The outside world will learn to respect her people.

"Novice!" an Elder admonished, "Pay attention when your elders are speaking to you."

She sat perfectly still, as any fully-fledged ninja would. Because a _novice_—as in, not Yuffie—would hardly deny herself the satisfaction of smacking the loudmouth around until his teeth came loose. For fuck's sake, she (had help but still) saved the world. But noooo, let's poke fun at Yuffie, the ninja who ran off to save their miserable hides from METEOR! "I offer my humblest apologies. I take no pleasure in insulting the senile. If you might repeat yourself, I will try harder to listen."

Yeah, that got brownie points. They leaned towards one another, murmuring outrage, forgetting she was still in the room. It was as if the Monkey of Insanity just appeared before them and offered to bed their wives. What was the big deal? They were rude first. In truth, she wasn't supposed to be at this ridiculous meeting; not that they told her what she was here for. She was supposed to be preparing for her welcoming celebration into that womanhood stuff. It's why she returned from her training—to accept her Kisaragi heritage and become Lady Wutai. It was time to give up her reckless tomboy ways and become a leader of her nation. A nation of traditions and manners and assassinations you weren't allowed to do yourself. She would miss life when she became a woman.

Would they ever shut up with the muttering? Geez. And why did they keep referring to her as a novice? A feeling in the pit of her stomach, akin to nausea, was rising into awareness. Something about the confident way the Elder addressed her; like her years of dedication and work before meeting her friends was inconsequential. This felt like the door to her future slamming shut in her face. This was denial. Yuffie could recognize it a mile away.

The nausea was spreading to her throat and her fingers felt cold around the parchment. She spared it a quick glance, as if she could read through the seal. 'Don't let this be what I think it is. Please be a history scroll.'

One of the Elders spoke above the rest, trying to keep the mood a calm one. "_Lady_ Kisaragi," he started, earning the ninja's attention, "you do realize that Meteor was destroyed about two years ago, do you not?"

"My friends and I saved the world," for bald geezers like you to live another century, "two years ago, yes." Her chin lifted, as if daring someone to correct her. "What of it, _Elder_ Sohi?"

Another Elder sneered at her playful tone, downright ignoring Yuffie's position in society. Considering how much Elders loved tradition, this was an alarming rudeness. He pointed his gold-tipped fan at her, "Where have you been since? Why didn't you return to complete your ninja training?"

"What are you talking about? I already am a ninja." Yuffie exclaimed, her eyes blazed like lightning in the distance. But she did nothing else, trying to express calm of body.

A new irritating murmur. She must resist the urge. . . don't poison your Elders. Remain calm. Someone new spoke up, though she couldn't place his name. They looked the same once people get that old. "We all acknowledge you dexterity, Miss Kisaragi—"

'That's _Lady Kisaragi_ to you,' she wanted to shout. What was with the disregard to her person? Did everyone just decide to forget the Kisaragi name and its honored place while she was away? Better yet, what of the respective hold as Lady Wutai? What weren't they telling her?

"—but you are not a ninja."

Of all the things anyone could have said to her, this one completely derailed her.

The Elder paused a moment but Yuffie couldn't form a retort. Nothing of sass came to mind. "Though you may be skilled—"

_May_ be skilled?

"—your skills differ from those of a ninja's. In your prolonged absence we have agreed that your talents have dulled since your return."

She blinked and the world slowed to halt. Her concentration on reality zoned out and faded into a growing sense of disbelieving horror, 'Dulled? I have _dulled_?"

Are they insane? One cannot simply _dull_ a lifetime of rigorous training! Saving the world does not make a person think, 'Oh, well, that wasn't hard'. It's a very demanding task! Did they not comprehend the effort, the sacrifice she went through? And those two years of "absence" was hardly a Gold Saucer vacation. . .

"Surely you understand, there has never been a Lady or Lord Wutai who wasn't first a ninja," she could barely hear the geezer. Others said some things, but what really caught her attention was Elder Sohi's wrap up. "So, if you wish to claim your rightful—" someone in the back row cleared his throat "—inheritance, then you must start again."

Her body snapped to attention.

"Whoa, yo—you what? Are you geezers serious?" Yuffie looked to each face in disbelief. "From the beginning. . just like that? START OVER!"

So she lacked discipline, whatever, but if Yuffie didn't accept the responsibility of becoming Lady Wutai, no one else could. There was no other Kisaragi left; she was an only child, the last of her bloodline. This was her obligation since birth, her very life began and ended with this title and they were taking it away. "Who could possibly bear the title. . ?"

No one spoke, but they held themselves a little higher. Politics. How disgusting.

She couldn't sit through this any longer. With a free hand, she pulled her new ultimate weapon, Stain, from under her robe. Her right hand fisted what she assumed to be her official rejection papers, "Y—you. ."

A few Elders attempted to sympathize with the young reject and rose to console her, but she waved her conformer. "YOU GREEDY MAGGOTS!"

They want dulled do they? Yuffie yanked out a smoke bomb and threw it to the floor. Before she disappeared completely, she spared a glance to Elder Sohi, who waved goodbye with a sad smile. That was the only encouragement she needed, the smoke thinned, and the supposed Lady of Wutai was nowhere in sight.

This was a relief in more ways than one could count. Sohi rose stiffly and moved to shut the sliding door Yuffie had left ajar. He shook his head at the holes in her manners. Out of habit from encountering her in the past—or just by being in the same building as her—he searched for his purse. To his delight, everything was accounted for. Perhaps she was feeling gracious? Had her two years absence taught her some measure of restraint?

"My purse is gone!"

He thought not.

The others followed suit and patted themselves down, "My materia! Guards!"

The next five minutes were quite a show for Sohi as he watched the rest of the counsel members without a means to buy dinner tonight. And somewhere on the outskirts of Wutai was a noblewoman riding a snow-colored chocobo toward the mountain range. She was angry and alone. She needed a shoulder to cry on, and knew exactly where to find one.

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading!**_


	2. Mauve and Mako

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Chapter Two: Mauve and Mako**

After Meteor Day, Nibelheim transformed from a classic, quaint town to a tourist haven almost overnight. Reconstruction for brick roads, Item Stores, gyms, coffee shops and real estate offices branched outward. Houses were built with stone blocks—less flammable—and surrounded by tall metal fences. In comparison to other cities, Nibelheim was still small, but business inflated by four hundred percent. The population bounced from forty to a few hundred. Only the manor atop the hill and the broken factory beyond remained untouched by the renovation.

Tifa Lockhart became the owner of an extremely successful First Heaven bar. By this point in her life, settling down meant everything. She was done fighting Sephiroth and Shinra while simultaneously being chased by them. The world was saved, everyone was alive, and she could finally slow down. As a member of AVALANCHE, she was never given time to grieve over the loss of her father, friends, and homes. Every minute was spent towards The Cause, or so the people have dubbed it. Fighting was—

The digital clock above the front entrance chimed into her reverie. Three in the morning and she was still on her feet. The shame. Tifa snickered, remembering the way Yuffie would react when she'd see unsightly behavior. . .

_The group was all walking along the beach of Costa Del Sol and a young couple happened to cross their path. The boy had his hand hanging loosely around the girl's waist as it slowly reached lower and lower. . . _

_Yuffie asked aloud, "Is that legal?" Everyone focused on what the ninja was referring to. _

_. . . until it made its way to her ass and sque—Yuffie rushed forward before anyone thought to stop her and kicked the boy in the head. "Feel the shame! The shame!"_

Tifa gave a sleepy laugh. She could sympathize with the ninja's outrage regarding men placing their hands where they don't belong. Most of the honest jobs she managed to land were as a barkeep. What the group—particularly Cid and Barrett—didn't understand was that Yuffie came from a completely different culture and mindset. Which was probably why she clashed and argued the most with her teammates. Speaking of that little troublemaker, she hasn't received any word in one year, nine months, two weeks, and three days. On the last note, Yuffie wrote about going on a journey to discover her potential. To become as powerful as Cloud proved himself to be. As a martial artist, Tifa could relate; it's impossible to feel like a master when you know people like Cloud exist. There's always another technique to learn or a better fighter. She leaned against the counter, staring at the doors as if _he'd_ ever walk through them. 'Oh Cloud. . .'

Two years, one week, and five days. Not including today.

Tifa pulled out a red marker she habitually kept in her back pocket and turned to a calendar she set aside for one specific reason. 'This is just for you,' she thought, marking this morning with a red scribble—two years, one week, and six days since he left. Admittedly, it shouldn't have been a surprise. Cloud was always burning footprints on her polished floors by pacing back and forth in a constant restlessness. Even after Sephiroth's death, that bastard continued to plague Cloud's world. It was strange; the ex-SOLDIER personally delivered the finishing blow yet he couldn't accept it was the end.

The change was too sudden. To go from having the world's survival rest on your shoulders, the ultimate purpose in life, to nothing was not an easy adjustment. Unlike Cid with his sky ships, or Barret as he took Marlene to see the liberated world, Nanaki charged with the protection of Cosmo Canyon, and everyone was surprised to learn Yuffie was of a noble bloodline. They had people to be with, or tasks set only for them. Futures. Cloud's only goal was Sephiroth. Tifa was hoping that Cloud would see that Nibelheim could be his future. Well. . . she blushed a little, she wanted to be his future, too. But Sephiroth took that place in his life. Just another reason to hate a mass murderer. Like the only note her hopeless first love left behind, "I'm sorry. It can't be over yet, not for me. I'll see you in the end."

Tifa wished him the peace he left to find, the answers to his questions. And she waited, afraid to leave Nibelheim in the event of his return. Just in case Cloud would love her back. She knew that when he returned—and he would return—he would find her here. She still carried around the note; for her hopes and despairs. It was painful to read it every morning, study his scratchy handwriting, only to fold it up so she could read it tomorrow.

Not that digressing from heroine to bar owner was easy, despite the fact it was what she wished for. It's difficult obeying the laws, because the law used to mean Shinra. AVALANCHE members used to have wanted posters, now she was a role model. There were desperate times that she had to pawn her mother's keepsakes to buy a med-kit for Biggs. Now people were giving her offerings, and not always in the socially acceptable way.

When (one year, ten months, two weeks, and five days ago) Cid made his first visit to First Heaven, the pilot hollered at her lack of hobbies. And doubling as a bouncer on the weekends didn't count. Neither did a giant calendar collection.

"_Play some fucking cards—hic—or twirl your god damn ass long hair, Tiff! Anything but count. Hic. . That shit's for fucking mental mother-fucks in fuckin' mental assyl—assiloom—ass. . ."_

"_Asylums?"_

"_Hospitals! Fucking mental hospitals!" Cid spoke as kindly as a cussing pilot could muster under the influence of seven to twelve shots. His half-sober awareness would focus on her calendars, "Holy fuck! What the seven hells are—hic—all those damn papers doin. . hic. . on your damn wall? Fuc—king white wall and three brown? It's shitting up y-your brown color, Tiff." _

_Tifa laughed and sighed. She started methodically and pointed to the first on the top left. "The first calendar: The Death of Sephiroth, with two years. ." She even had one as trivial as when she got her last hair cut. After reading the sixth calendar, Cid's disgruntled silence embarrassed her and she poured him another drink, hoping he'd forget about the calendars in the morning. _

_She realized, from Cid's reaction, how pathetic it was to cling. She was as restless as Cloud, just not as honest about it._

Since then, Cid would stop by in his new Highwind once every week or two. He'd provide the martial artist with stories far more exciting than waiting for 11:59 p.m. to change to 12:00 a.m. In exchange, the beer was free. . . or whatever his newest obsession was.

Recently, Tifa threw away the calendars except nine: Cloud, Cid, Barret, Nanaki, Yuffie, Vincent, Cait Sith, Aeris, and Sephiroth. So she was "healing" as Cid called it. To heal would imply a wound, and her initial response was to clout him. In the end, Cid's good intentions won over impulsive violence and she was grateful to him. Which reminded her to mark everyone else's calendar before setting herself to the task at hand: washing the glasses, stocking the cabinets, setting the chairs, wiping the counters. . .

Tifa sighed at the daunting task and decided a little procrastination under the moon wouldn't hurt. First Heaven didn't open until noon anyways, she could spare the time. She ambled around the counter and locked up; absently fingering the keys between her hands.

The night air was cool against her exposed skin, reminding her of the coming winter. Black shorts and a white tank weren't going to cover it in a few weeks. Not that it ever covered much in the first place. Nor did it ever catch _his_ attention. . . Tifa walked in the middle of the road, kicking pebbles in her gloom. Perhaps she should try to slim down? And maybe wear something more girly and pink, like Aeris did. 'God damn it girl,' she chided herself, 'how stupid is it that I'm competing with my dead friend for another friend's attention?'

So preoccupied with her disastrous love life, she failed to notice a figure cross her path. And as she kicked another couple of pebbles, her boot—her steel-toed boot—connected with something that grunted. "Oh, I am so sorry! I wasn't paying any attention and that's no excuse, but I'm really sorry!" she rambled a minute longer before she fully took in the situation.

The person she kicked was solid and heavily cloaked. Tifa supposed it was a man due to the height and wide shoulders, but the layers of black cloth made it impossible to determine. The shadows seemed to gather around the figure and he looked more inhuman than a simple stranger. Any normal person would at least be nervous. A real shame Tifa didn't qualify for having normal anythings.

"Excuse me, sir," she began kindly, hoping she wasn't addressing a tall woman as a man. Because referring a woman as a man after accidently kicking her is just asking for trouble. "Are you all right?"

Tifa knew everybody that resided in Nibelheim and she was certain he was from somewhere else. After bartending to all the locals, her sixth sense could affirm that she didn't recognize him. Pretty sure, anyway. The man emitted a lost sensation she couldn't place. Not hostile. A wanderer, probably from the old days. It made her want to help but walk away at the same time. Tifa shrugged these thoughts away and offered her hand to him like the Good Samaritan that she was.

He did not move, but he might be contemplating her. Thinking wasn't a bad thing; she pulled back her hand and shifted slightly. The hair on the back of her neck pricked when she felt his gaze. It was intense. "Well, umm, I own a bar down the road if you want to. . sit down and rest? Perhaps a drink?"

He grunted.

Tifa reckoned this was going to be her only response, made a U-turn, and hauled herself back to First Heaven. It never failed; she always found a way to be at her precious bar. Gods only know how much dust was collecting on her bed. Or how many fan mails and chocolates were collecting on her lawn. Tifa listened to her footsteps along the sidewalk; she strained her ears to hear her companion's footfalls. Glancing backwards, he was there, wearily following behind in rhythm. Weary was something she knew all too well and spared him a warm smile; hoping it didn't look too weird from ill-use. "Did you just come from the inn?"

Grunt. The man was worse than Vincent. Who knew that was possible? Tifa made a mental note to tell Yuffie all about it.

"Then I suppose you know you came too late. Their doors close to customers after the moon rises past the factory," she pointed skywards with her free hand. "They're a superstitious lot. That or they do it to for the thrill of tourism."

In a curious manner, the shadowed man titled his head a bit to the moon. He almost seemed to scoff at the idea. Tifa had the same reaction when she heard about the strange rumors, but there was nothing she could do about it either way. She sighed and chuckled. His head slanted to the side as if watching this for the first time. She found his reaction to be kind of cute, in a lost puppy kind of way, but managed not to say so. "Inside joke."

Tifa grinned like the old days. Yeah, those were the times. Beggars knocking on people's doors, asking for anything: garbage, clothing, a place to sleep. Luckily, a martial artist knows how to prepare for all kinds of situations. She unlocked the door, "You can stay the night if you'll agree to put that whole collision thing behind us. What do you say?"

At that moment, she pushed the door open with an exaggerated "ta-dah" flourish. There was a quiet pause, as if a moment of truth settled upon the unsuspecting duo. Realizing the possible mistake of being friendly to a stranger was an old warning her mother used to give.

'Well,' she thought with fresh optimism, 'too late now. Might as well enjoy the company and see what will come of it.' And man, did company sound wonderful. She appreciated Cid's visits, but she still had the yearning for companionship; a driving need to be the shadow of her old self. Fans didn't count as company, they were just. . . crazy. Too chatty, too freaking happy to be in a bar with their new idol. Publicity was an awful thing sometimes, it made Tifa lonely. So she clasped onto the nearest possible outlet of semi-normal human interaction.

The stranger also hesitated, thinking before making another move. He settled whatever doubts and sauntered forward, his posture straighter. As he passed by, Tifa felt a sudden tingling jolt. The kind of jolt you get when you incorrectly equip lightning materia. She didn't want him to see her flinch, so she said whatever could come to mind, "I know it's not the Ritz, but that place is full snobs. They kicked me out once because of my attire. But hey, not me, I kick people in."

He seemed to jump, too, but didn't stop walking until he reached the center of the room. She could've sworn she heard a soft exhalation of breath that could very possibly be the gross understatement of a chuckle. And since she was on such a roll with this newfound happy, Tifa decided it was a chuckle. A light breeze of winter reminded the martial artist to step inside and shut the door. "Would you like me to show you your room or would you like a drink first?"

The figure half turned and regarded her in what she assumed to be a sideways glance. He might've tried to speak, but the words came out as a dry rasp. That meant he'd want a drink. "Just sit on one of those stools at the corner. I'll fetch some water, then we go from there, okay?"

That triggered a nod. The curiosity was getting to her, seeping past her self-restraint. Who was this wanderer? Maybe he was a refuge? How could she get to see his face without being nosy? "By the way, it's much warmer in here. Feel free to hang your cloak on a nearby stool and relax a little."

Feeling clever, Tifa walked past him and around the counter. She didn't want to ruin the surprise and ducted down, taking her time searching for an empty glass. She waited, listening for the rustling of his cloak slipping off. He was still standing and pulling off an extra jacket by the time she was "done" and her gaze met his exposed collarbone. Deep mauve eyes traveled up his features and clashed with brilliant mako jade orbs.

At first, the truth standing two feet from her failed to register. She couldn't comprehend whom these eyes belonged to. Tifa could not make out the familiar face until the glass of water slipped from her fingers and shattered to the floor. Memories of tragedy and anger resurfaced, the scar on her chest burned. She felt scattered but solely focused on the danger before her.

"Sephiroth."

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading!**_


	3. Drool

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Chapter Three: Drool**

Yuffie Kisaragi smirked like the rogue she occasionally portrayed. Now that being a ninja was no longer an option, rogue was her full-time profession. What a sour thought. What was worse: Yuffie Kisaragi the Reject or Yuffie Kisaragi the Rogue? How were those her only options? After what happened at the capital, she couldn't even make claim with Yuffie the Wutain. This fucking sucks. But the perfect time for battles; five on one were her kind of odds. She inspected her enemies, 'Guess they could use a hand.'

She stood loosely and made a flippant gesture, "Cure 3," and effectively restored the Fire Bombs to full health. The reject fell back into an offensive stance, still and ready. No anxious movements despite her impatience for satisfaction. No shifting eyes; just smooth, regulated breathing and a steady grip. This is what two intensive years can do to the most energetic of people. Her power and confidence doubled whilst she journeyed with her friends, but this training taught her control, sharpened her skills and gave them potency. She learned about balance. Not that her hard work mattered anymore.

Yuffie couldn't be Lady Wutai. The Kisaragi tradition was over. All of her other friends got worldwide renown and gratitude, but Yuffie. . . she couldn't even get her own people to acknowledge her. 'This really sucks,' she raised her arm and flicked the conformer.

"Wark!"

'How am I supposed to announce myself now? The Great Non-Ninja Yuffie?' she pondered in a violent gloom. 'Those stupid, old, fat. . .'

"W-wark!"

'. . . rusty, know-it-all bastards!' she caught Stain as it curved in the air, making its way back to her.

"**WARK!"**

"Geezers think you're so smart, pulling the carpet right from under me!" One Fire Bomb managed to survive the fatal blow by letting the other four take the hit. Her eyes narrowed. Clever flaming fart!

She tightened her body, pulled back, and then pushed herself into the air. Yuffie soared above the ground with a twist before landing in front of her enemy. "Think _you_ can be the next Lady of Wutai!"

Naturally, the Fire Bomb didn't understand a word the reject was muttering. All it knew was its enemy was getting angrier. Every time the monster tried to Escape or Flee, the enraged two-legger was already there, glaring.

"Dull senses, huh? My skills are not good enough for ninja status HUH!" Yuffie slashed through the shrinking form of what was once a Fire Bomb. It took one swing. But she was in no mood to gloat over such an easy victory. "Well, I'd like to see those so-called elders be decent ninjas without their blasted materia!"

A blunt point poked at her back, "Wark, warrrk? Warrrrrrrk."

Yuffie whirled from her thoughts and faced her snow-colored chocobo, "Sorry Yuki, did you say something?"

Yuki rolled her garnet eyes at the ninja in a 'why me?' manner. The chocobo ruffed up her feathers and pointed her golden beak to a ledge on the far left. "Waaark."

"Warrrr—k?" Yuffie imitated, following her instructions and stopped short. Her rotten mood just sank a little lower, "Oh. Oh _wark_. . ."

Over the jagged edge perched an entire clan of Fire Bombs, all of them expanded to a furious Suicide mode. Since winter was nearing, Fire Bombs are a minimal hazard for travelers. They naturally hated the cold and would group together for heat in a secluded area away from life. Winter made them very sluggish and vulnerable. As fate would have it, this was the largest gathering of Fire Bombs Yuffie ever laid eyes on. Fifty, maybe sixty. . . Certainly no more than eighty. She figured so because anything more than seventy-nine meant fatal trouble. A person would spontaneously combust from the heat before even having a chance to Escape.

Moving leisurely, Yuffie bent her knees and picked up her travel bags. As she rose, the Fire Bombs began their decent in her direction.

"Com'ere Yuki, love," she whispered softly. Making a light "come" gesture with her free hand, she stood with a smooth motion. No sudden movements, "Com'n, nice and easy. ."

However, Yuki wasn't the type to slug around when danger was eminent. In a burst of speed, the chocobo thrust forward at her human but Yuffie was still facing the enemy and not the snowy blur from behind. Yuki bent her head low, attacking the reject's knees.

"Whoa!"

Yuki's strong neck jerked back up and her rider landed unceremoniously on her white-feather back. "Wark wark wark wark wark."

To Yuffie's ears, as she readjusted herself, she could have sworn the chocobo said, "Work work work work work," in one of those tones you just know is directed at you.

And even though Yuki was racing past the monsters, they held the advantage. Gravity pulled the enlarged Fire Bombs close enough for their combined heat to rise from hot to dangerous. 'Damn,' she cursed, 'and me without my fireproof gear.' Not that it could provide enough protection against a clan of this scale. In her defense, winter was coming and fire armor seemed like pointless baggage. Of course, only an idiot would travel these mountains without. . . Yuffie stopped thinking before she implied herself something her pride wouldn't allow.

"Wark!" Yuki cried out in alarm.

"I know, I know." They were going to be baked if the clan made it to the ground before Yuki Escaped the mountain path. Apparently, her chocobo thought so too and picked up the pace, efficiently avoiding physical contact.

Yuffie turned around in the saddle and even though she didn't pack mastered Ice materia—once again thinking she wouldn't need it—the reject had something else in mind. "STOP," she cast at the Fire Bombs with a twist of her wrist.

That was that; the whole clan froze in midair. They struggled against the five-star spell, but nothing could be done until the time let up. Out of habit, she was about to thank the Wutai Gods above until she realized her mistake. Only Wutains thanked _them_, and seeing as how her heritage was denied, their blessings must be too. After all, she was the first reject in history, what was there to be blessed about? She felt an acidic bitterness in the pit of her stomach and it hardened her shame. Yuffie wanted desperately to blame someone, to redirect the hatred from herself, but her life was empty of such targets.

She shook her head back to the present. Brooding was for losers, and she refused to sink that low. It's in the past. Don't fixate on it, which was her philosophy. Be Free. Yuffie was a present-minded young woman, and speaking of which. . .

"HA!" Yuffie called out triumphantly, pointing at their statue-like forms for emphasis, "that'll teach you flamin' toad farts to mess with—OW!"

The reject rubbed her head and promptly turned around to face the right direction. "I leave you to drive for two friggin' minutes and look what you do! Look! Drive us into a friggin' low bridge!"

Yuki glanced backwards, humor glinting in her eyes. She opened her beak.

"Oh no you don't! I do not want to hear one wark of sass about this, do you understand me?"

Of course Yuki understood and her beak clamped shut with such elaboration, Yuffie thought the chocobo might open and shut it again, just for spite.

After a fair gap was between them and the Fire Bomb clan, Yuffie pulled in for a short break. She checked her supplies since some items were sensitive to heat. After doing inventory, she found the roll of parchment in the folds of her dress, still sealed. The reject contemplated throwing it out, but instead stuffed it to the very bottom of the saddlebag. Yuffie mounted up and thought about Tifa and how much the visit would cheer her up.

Nothing (except the total rejection from her people) could pull down a sunny disposition to the pits like stealing materia from a bunch of magic noobies. A healthy dose of Lockhart was what Yuffie needed to get her zest back. And after imposing herself for a few days, she could get her act together, come to grips and figure out what to do with her life.

'Gawd, I wonder if her hair still reaches her ankles.' Yuffie always admired Tifa for her ability to fight the baddies while keeping a mane like that under control. If she tried to grow her hair out that long, Yuffie would find herself tripping every chance she got—ninja grace or not. Well, rejected ninja grace or not.

Yuffie let her dark clumps grow out a little from its boyish fashion. Not that she didn't like the previous style, but after hanging with Tifa and Aeris for as long as she did. . . well, she couldn't help but feel the need to lengthen her own hair. To the reject's surprise months before, it turned out that Yuffie had a few natural curls in her hair. It wasn't obvious, just a faint wave here or there. It was a pleasing discovery and a fresh change for her.

However, being such a tomboy, Yuffie did a horrible job of managing an even cut. Eventually, she threw the scissors across the room and made a hack-n-wack job with her conformer. No one approved of it but Yuffie. In Wutai, a female with long hair was a sign a maturity and womanly-ness or something like that; she wasn't paying attention on that day. But with all the different layers, Yuffie managed to keep the expectations at bay and clung to the tomboy charm.

She reigned in for a break, near the abandoned mansion, for one more stop before passing over the last hill and entering her friends' hometown. Supposedly, Vincent was staying there, too. Yuffie kept that rumor in mind as a second priority after she met up with Tiff.

All was going well and except for the sore spot on Yuffie's head, so she figured Yuki deserved some quality greens. The reject slid off the saddle, pulling at her gloves, and rummaged for the greens. Taking an absent-minded step here or there, she found what she was looking for. "Here we are," she pulled out the 500-gil treat.

Yuki smelled the greens before the reject had a chance to center them on the flat of her palm. Luckily, the chocobo was gentle and simply nibbled around the obstacles Yuffie suddenly found quite valuable to her future social life. But it didn't stop the Yuki slobber that coated her hand.

"Ewww, Yuki!" she protested.

Rag. Must find a rag.

_**- - - - - - THE LINE THAT DIVIDES - - - - - -**_

Vincent Valentine stretched within the confines of his coffin. His limbs pushed against the solid darkness as he was once again awakened by the changes of the outside world. A nagging feeling bothered him constantly, particularly over the past few. . . well, he wasn't certain how long. It wasn't like he kept a calendar inside the coffin with him. He growled then shifted to his side, determined to ignore any and all troubles for the sake of peace.

The issue had nothing to do with him and so it was not his concern. 'Go away,' he thought silently, 'just go away.'

Like a mantra, he echoed the plea yet the feeling didn't leave and this made him increasingly uneasy. The gunman vaguely tried to analyze the root of this feeling like he had several times before but came to no conclusion. An illogical over-surge of emotion was his best estimate.

_Duh Vincent, duh,_ said Chaos mockingly.

In the confines of his mind, Vincent felt the demon give the equivalent of a smack on the back of his head. It left a physical tingling sensation where he would have been smacked had Chaos his own vessel. Unfortunately, they were sharing his. 'Thanks be for the simpler things in life I suppose.'

_I can hear you, smartass,_ the demon quipped. _Remember me? Your mental pen pal buddy? FOR ALL ETERNITY!_

Vincent shuddered.

_Why is it,_ Chaos retorted hazily, _that you're only so unpleasant with me and not with everybody else?_

The gunman scoffed, sending an outward thought to his pen pal, 'Perhaps it has something to do with that _for all eternity_ bit. Also, I'm not unpleasant.'

Chaos laughed. _You're the most unpleasant human I know._

'You only know, what—twenty humans? Your opinion doesn't count.' Vincent resettled himself for a long nap, ignoring the demon's grumblings when he realized he was completely awake. The self-inflicted hibernation was completely worn off. His muscles were no longer relaxed, but stiff and aching. His stomach was empty. Sneaky demons.

The gunman sighed and just lay there for a while. His mind ached for another five years, all he needed was just five more years. . . but it was too late now. That idiotic demon just had to wake him up.

Though he was underground, Vincent could sense the night. The bats that made the mansion their home flapped around, practically screeching into his ears. Various other night critters were about, rustling and chattering. The noisiest were the nightlife inhabitants of Nibelheim. What a horrible racket; how could thirty-five citizens make so much noise? At times like this, Vincent did not like his enhanced senses.

Abruptly, he slid the solid stone cover to the side and sat erect. The dust was heavy in the air and nearly suffocated his lungs. He hastily leapt to his feet and marched out the dismal chamber while a wrinkled cloak lingered around like a dark hug. The gunman proceeded to walk down the filthy hallway, breathing in the damp, musky scent like fresh air to a newborn. He took another deep breath and calmed his senses, urging them to fade. Gradually, he soothed to a calm so bats and dust weren't such a headache. But to his disappointment, the feeling of uneasiness wouldn't settle as effortlessly.

By now, he was on the top step of the spiral staircase, always conscious of the tempting hidden rooms below. Vincent hesitated, knowing that if he stepped out of his private realm, he was obligating himself to search out the source of his anxiousness. For the long-term sake of more sleep, of course. There were few reasons Vincent would wander outside without an external catalyst (thanks Cloud) to bother him. If not to find somewhere else to sleep, then it was always on the behalf of more sleep. Maybe to save the world, but only if he absolutely had to.

His decision was made and pushed a protruding stone in place with the others. The secret door slid aside and Vincent walked through, looking around. The city lights seeped through the holes in the curtains. The walls were decrepit, as if they would collapse if one were to hang a picture on them. Even the floor seemed to sink underneath his weight. The Turk in him was uncomfortable of his exposed position. The door was automatic and shut itself, giving him a chill. His right hand brushed the shotgun on his side. 'This is ridiculous,' Vincent chided.

_Overwhelmed already?_

Vincent frowned beneath the high collar of his cloak. People always assumed that Vincent was an unexpressive, efficient sort of man. That was mostly true. But he preferred high collars or scarves because he had poor facial control. If something, or someone, annoyed or amused him, it always seemed to show. Not a good habit to have for a Turk. It was a flaw he wanted to keep secret, considering how many things in the world either aggravated or entertained him.

He questioned the stability of the cracks in the floor, so he chose his steps carefully. When the floor creaked, he'd pause then continue. Vincent was determined to take things slowly and not rush. Immortals could do that. During his unhurried trek to the front door, his mind wandered to the apprehensive sentiment that he was purposefully returning to the world and its society. To be more specific, the social society. He didn't like the smiling, the shaking hands, the conversing. . . He really didn't like being adored, a side effect he had not considered when the world was saved and the civilians found out who was responsible. By the time he realized, it was too late to retreat, or ask the other members of AVALANCHE to never mention his involvement.

The gunman was at the mansion's main stair. On he walked to the door: the last boundary of solitude. He eyed it with determination.

His normal hand reached out from his side, fingers extended. They halted inches over the door handle and Vincent could not seem to move them forward or backward. 'Just turn the knob. Turn the fucking knob.'

Vincent had reached his self-manipulation limits. Only his twitching fingers hinted at the stalemate he suffered. Vincent's dark crimson eyes remained steely, trained upon his adversary. He gave the knob his most baleful glare, but it resisted him. As it was, he couldn't move his hand either way without the increasing clash of what to do. Turn the knob and risk the outside world, or go to sleep and live with the shame of being beaten by an inanimate object. He should turn the knob, but he wanted to sleep. . . And he was sleepy—No! Turn the—

"Get if off, off off off _off!_"

Had he been paying more attention to his surroundings, he might have been prepared. But with his mind focused on the symbolism of opening a door, Vincent didn't notice the knob turning on its own accord. By the time this registered into his consciousness, it was too late to completely jump aside. The door flung itself open—by reflex, he avoided getting slammed—and out lunged a crazed youth. She kept yelling about getting "it" off.

What it was, the gunman didn't know because right then the girl tackled him with the force of her momentum. They fell to the floor as Vincent broke her fall with a grunt and frown.

"Ugh, blast those crazy Wutai Gods to the seven depths of—V. . Vinvin?" she started cursing with passion then ended in a tentative question.

Vincent shook his head to clear his thoughts.

Vinvin.

That left only one crazed youth to his memory, "Yes Yuffie?"

He observed the ninja staring at him in surprise and relief. She smiled happily, and to his own surprise, he discovered someone new instead of the jovial girl from his memories. The changes were subtle in all the important ways: her voice was a little deeper; expression softer; any existing baby fat disappeared to showcase her cheekbones and how comfortably she handled her body, a body that had grown into a mature woman. Chaos took strong notice of the extra curve in her chest and hips, which Vincent was inwardly inclined to agree with. He wondered how long he had been slumbering if Yuffie was no longer a girl. The look suited her.

But there was some other aspect about her he couldn't place. . .

Neither of them noticed his stunned stare, for Yuffie had only one thing in mind: "Do you, perhaps, have a dry rag on you?"

"Pardon?" he asked blankly.

"Yeah, Vin, you know. A rag—like, a cleaning rag?"

He reached into his pockets with his clawed arm since the ninja was on top of his other one. He pulled out a square of linen and silently offered it to her. She snatched it quickly, rubbing vigorously at her other hand. "Thanks."

And there she stayed—on top of him—rubbing at her hand.

Vincent tried to wait patiently, looking everywhere but at the new woman ignorantly resting on his ribs. While searching for a distraction, he recognized the unique scent of chocobo drool coming from—"Yuffie?"

"Vinnie?" she replied pleasantly, if not a little forcefully.

"You may keep the cloth if you will please remove yourself from my person."

"Wha—oh. Yeah."

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading!**_


	4. A Lack of Ambition

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Chapter Four: A Lack of Ambition**

She just barely whispered. "Sephiroth."

The man in question naturally lifted at the mention of his name. Out of habit, the General straightened in stature but the woman backed away from him defensively. He didn't understand why she chose now to react this way to his presence considering how friendly she was before. His curiosity led him to accept her offer of a drink and place to sleep; so if she didn't want him here she should have decided so sooner. Here he stood now and he wanted his damn water—which he watched fall to the floor in disarray.

He felt a little disgruntled with her. How could a bartender even be this clumsy? First she accidently kicks him on an empty street and now drops glasses.

"But you. . you're n-not dead?"

And she points out the most inane things, to which he rolled his eyes downward to check for damage upon his person. Still alive. Sephiroth said nothing but gave the woman another reproachful look. She points at the moon and living things; next, she was probably going to "inform" him that her shirt was too small for her figure. Not that he'd ever criticize her taste in clothes. Two thumbs up in that department.

"B-but I thought. . Cloud had. . . I saw—WHY AREN'T YOU DEAD!"

Once again, she didn't realize she was about to make another clumsy mistake. The woman was backing too far into a wall of bottles and miscellaneous objects. Sephiroth stepped forward with good intentions but a blur of red ink caught his attention. He watched as numerous calendars fell to the wet floor.

He looked upon them critically. He knew he, of all creatures, should not be scolding someone else about the home livings and habits of society but. . . Weren't you supposed to use only one calendar for all your scheduling needs?

"Why are _you_ here?"

Sephiroth tilted his head to read an upturned calendar. It had several red markings and at the top the name "Cloud" was squeezed in-between the month and year. Cloud.

Cloud, his former puppet Cloud? Strangely haired fellow that ended him some-odd years ago Cloud. Sephiroth nodded to himself just as the woman asked: "Are you here for revenge? Is that it?"

Though it was a product of unfortunate timing, it was predictable that she would react with her ungodly woman-screech, "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY BAR!"

Goddamn. Why is it only tiny children (toddlers? babies? kids? why so many names?) and women can reach a pitch high enough to destroy eardrums? Such a loud command was not something Sephiroth could disregard. He still wanted his water, and it would've been nice to sleep in a bed, but not at the expense of his ears. He shrugged for his own satisfaction, grabbed his belongings, and headed for the door.

Before he got near the door, she immediately changed her mind. Again. "Oh no you don't, you murderer! I won't let you hurt anyone else!"

That was a curious statement but it went unanswered. His throat was too scratchy to engage in verbal correspondence. She moved to stand in his way just when she commanded he leave; the corner of his lips twisted at the absurdity. Sephiroth leveled his mako eyes at the woman so much shorter than his six foot one and with his expression suggested she move. But she widened her stance in challenge, an act he inwardly scoffed. He walked around her in his own thoughts. Killing and fighting wasn't something he—

"Hey, DID YOU HEAR ME?"

The General shrugged again, hardly caring what she was rambling about since she wasn't in the mood to share either beverage or bed. Then she tackled him.

Sephiroth landed face first and the floor gave a hard welcome. As his bare skin smacked against the stone, he almost felt the urge to grunt or curse, but the idea didn't reach beyond a simple thought. A thought of perhaps that's what he should have done. Of course, it was too late now.

Oh well. . . Wait, at that moment, it would've been appropriate to sigh. It wasn't too late for that, was it? After a brief contemplation, Sephiroth dragged in a breath and then let it out carefully, as if afraid he would ruin it.

Sigh. Living was hard.

_**- - - - - - THE LINE OF CONTINUED DIVISION - - - - - -**_

Tifa sat on the small of his back just ranting and raving like a lunatic. "You bastard! You are a fucking bastard you know that! Do you realize all the suffering you've caused? God fucking damn it—are you even sorry?" Then the universal, "I HATE YOU!"

With each word she felt a weight lifting off her shoulders; her mouth roaring accusations. It felt liberating. The whole time he lay there and took the abuse. Even when she finished, he remained unresponsive. She kept glaring at the back of his head, breathing deep breaths, expecting some sort of reply. In afterthought, she wondered why he hadn't rolled away from the fall or interrupted her rant with the sadistic violence only the infamous General of Meteor could perform. As much as she despised the thought, the martial artist could not understand why Nibelheim was still standing.

And what did she get in return for all of that verbal abuse? A sigh.

Son of a bitch just _sighed_ at her. She tightened her fist and gave a hard right hook straight into the middle of his shoulder blades. The bones creaked under her fist, his spine popped in a few places, giving hint to a possible fracture. "Hey, ANSWER ME!"

She felt him flinch under her high-pitched tone and cringed for being so childish; in truth, she hated resorting to screeching because she was a high-ranking martial artist. If she had a problem with a bad guy, then screaming wasn't what she'd resort to. Cloud, wherever he was, would have chided her for handling the situation so horribly.

But it got a response. The most feared man in all of history turned underneath her weight to lay belly up. He didn't knock her off or make any hostile attempts. Everything about this was inappropriate for his character.

"No, I am alive. I do not know. You invited me, blame no one but yourself. I have no interest in vengeance, so again, no. Because you howl like a banshee, I heard you fine, every time. I'm not a bastard—they were married. Perhaps. I don't feel shame and you've made your hatred quite obvious, if not well noted. If it makes you feel calm enough to stop your squawking, I give you my word I shall never forget your hatred for Sephiroth."

This was the weirdest moment in her adult life. And that includes the time Cloud dressed up like a woman and that pervert thought he looked the most attractive.

"I liked you better when you didn't talk," Tifa snapped back, which was lame but the only thing she could think of. He almost sounded human. Like he was just another guy being a smart ass, except his attitude was so cold. Well, maybe not cold; perhaps extremely indifferent with a small personality touch of cynicism. But it had to be more than that. "And I do not squawk," she put in for her own defense. She wanted to know what a banshee was, but hell would freeze over before she'd ask.

He snorted in disbelief and Tifa could not believe she had heard right. He snorts, he sighs, and he makes fun of her. And as far as she could tell, he hadn't tried to kill anyone. It's been an hour and no one was dead. This was very wrong. Who was this stranger that spoke so shortly? Why did he have Sephiroth's face?

"Just who in the hell are you?"

_**Twenty minutes later. . . . .**_

Tifa took another sip of her homemade tea. She went through the trouble to heat up tea because even though her "guest" wasn't acting particularly homicidal, she didn't want to risk giving him alcohol. Her tea had a soothing quality, which also helped her crazy nerves. "So, um. . ."

Sephiroth looked up from the rim of his cup, waiting. This had to be asked at some point. Might as well blurt it out. "Why aren't you doing the misanthropic annihilation of the world thing?"

Yuffie gave Tifa a word-of-the-day calendar (the one that started her habit). Misanthrope: noun, a person who dislikes humankind. Tifa had often wondered if next year's dictionary would have a picture of Sephiroth underneath, or if the name Sephiroth would later become a synonym of misanthrope. She sent a letter to the editors last month.

He shrugged. Sephiroth only did what he felt like doing.

"What, don't you know?" she half teased, half demanded. Yes, she was the one that decided to at least listen to what he had to say before alerting her friends, but she still felt tense. The scar underneath her tank top itched and burned strangely if she thought too much about Sephiroth sitting across the table from her. She felt guilty about this, but she had to know how he lived and why he was here.

"No."

Tifa shook herself, "What was that?"

Sephiroth set the tea down, "I know."

"And?"

"Lifestream took my—"

"Whoa! What—one moment. . . What?"

"After my defeat," his version of the climatic death explained in three words. Of course. "I ended up in the Lifestream," his conclusion. He was much chattier when he was insane, that's for sure. Not that he still didn't have a bucket of crazies for a brain.

"All right. Go on."

"The Lifestream is knowledge, infinite wisdom; a regulator of the world and its dead."

She nodded her understanding at this. Tifa remembered when Cloud was exposed to raw mako and ended up in a wheel chair. The doctor gave a brief explanation about mako; its essence and its power. After Cloud destroyed Sephiroth, he told her more of what happened whilst in Lifestream. The memories he re-experienced and some answers he discovered about himself. Bugenhagen from Cosmo Canyon also provided some insight.

He paused and seemed to be searching for the words, "It took—"

Tifa raised her hand and Sephiroth waited. God, he was weird. "It?"

"Lifestream," he answered.

"Huh?"

"It's a consciousness." As if it was the most obvious thing in the world. He took another sip of his tea while Tifa took a moment to think this through. It was possible, if one looked at is simply. Sure. Why couldn't it be an autonomous being? Sephiroth watched her expressions change as the martial artist learned to accept what he said. When he thought it was safe to speak without her confusion interrupting, "It took part of me."

Tifa leaned back into the chair, "What do you mean?"

_**- - FLASHBACK - -**_

"What is this?" a curious voice hummed.

The General opened his eyes in surprise, not knowing why they were closed in the first place.

"The Ancient hybrid in my domain?" it continued to muse, "A Destroyer of Worlds, if I'm not mistaken."

"Probably not," he muttered, trying to understand what happened, unable to remember the recent events of his life. He had summoned Meteor. The General looked around for evidence of the total obliteration rumored of the black material but only saw dizzy walls of color. Hmm. He expected the death of a world to look darker rather than this disturbing brightness and low ringing in his ears.

Where was his favorite puppet? Did he destroy it for its disobedience or did it destroy him? The ringing was growing louder until he felt his ears pop under the pressure. But he ringing continued. Then a brief piercing flash of pictures, memories, ideas. If felt friendly but cold; familiar but something that he couldn't have experienced, like a strange déjà vu. It passed across his awareness quickly before he could grasp the concepts and images. His mind was in a haze and he was floating in a strange weightless pull. The pit of his stomach lurched with promising nausea.

Something was wrong. This was wrong. What happened to Meteor?

'Mother Jenova!' his mind called out frantically. Mother could make sense of this. Mother would tell him all he would need to know.

"Jenvoa," the voice returned, "is not welcome here. Her voice is gone so do not bother to reach her."

"Impossible," The General snarled, "Mother is always with _me_."

There was a series of popping and ringing in his ears; meaningless recollections invaded his mind's eye. He could see Wutains, almost smell the incense, he could even understand their language as it garbled inside his brain. The pain started in his forehead and spread like the blotches of light under his eyelids. It was random yet persistent.

"As a Destroyer, you should understand what it means to be dead. The difference between possible and impossible. Your precious mother is gone."

Gone? No, that he didn't understand.

"Then where am I?" The General's grip upon Masamune tightened and loosened rhythmically in a growing sense of bloodlust. Who was this fool that thought to suggest his mother gone? Kill the pretender—that's what Mother would say. That's what she would want, he was certain. That would make Mother proud of her son.

Flash. More flickers of discoveries and memories. It came again and went. The ringing vibrated in his entire body and he experienced another flare of feeling and scribbles of a passing intellect.

'How useless,' his hand moved to his temple in an attempt to ignore the flashes.

"You are in the core of the planet, my center. The world's very center, in fact. I am known as Lifestream and your judgment is at hand."

Got right to the point, didn't it? He grinned. Considering his unusual situation, he could accept this at face value. It was a shame; he was so close to seeing the end, to reaching the Promised Land. The General stretched and watched the colors change and glow with a new interest. Now that he knew where he was, he could guess the rest—he had lost to the puppet.

A sense of serenity overcame him. Death. It didn't sound so bad.

How disappointed Mother must be with him. How could he make this up to her? Then he realized the truth: he couldn't. Mother would never forgive him for his weakness, for losing. For being dead.

"You are not dead, hybrid; I intervened before that was possible—"

Sephiroth frowned at the telepathic annoyance.

"—for if you die, it would bring chaos to my systemic regulation over the souls. You and yours were never meant to be, Destroyer. There is no place for you in any realm that wouldn't result in its complete destruction."

The General laughed bitterly at the closest being to Godlike knowledge and power. "And I thought you knew everything, Lifestream. Of course I'm not meant to be! I was man-made you fucking moron."

There was a silence, but he didn't fear the consequences. What could be worse than utter defeat and bright memories of past lives—lives he had taken—mingling with his already twisted ones? Let come what may.

"Do you know what drives you, Destroyer?" Lifestream asked, almost thoughtful in tone.

Stupid question. Mother. Bloodlust, revenge, the insanity ebbing at his mind to be released. . . Everything drove him to scourge the impure world.

Lifestream got the gist of his mocking response from his mind. "No no, Destroyer. You are not a complete human; your drive is not supported by reasons. It is your demonic ambition, your rhythmless cravings. These are your will and your wants. They hold your meaning Destroyer, and without them I shall—"

"What bullshit," he scorned. "Wonderful philosophy but unless you're going to kill me, I want out. Now!"

"Oh. You _want_ all right, but not like you should. And no more."

"Go to hell," he thrashed around, in hopes of moving in any possible direction. If he was in the very center of the world, any determined path could be considered "out".

"That is only for me to decide, hybrid."

An importunate flash penetrated his mental defenses and the pain of such unwelcome knowledge burned much more than the previous. It lanced through his entire frame and he grasped Masamune with both hands, but it brought no comfort. The General tensed his body and pushed the walls of his psyche outward. To his great relief, it worked. So this was a place of the mind. Good to know.

"You are surprisingly resistant to the Knowledge of my mako and the souls that reside within me." How amused it sounded, as if his struggles meant so little.

"So?" he challenged, furious, trying to call his captor out in the open; not even sure a being this highly evolved had a physical body. His eyes narrowed and the sanity was fading into a dark corner. His ability to care about what was rational faded away. "Come here, Lifestream. Come and play with me if you insist upon toying with me."

"Regardless of your unforeseen resilience, I shall pass judgment. I will take your drive and you will be returned to the living."

"_What?_ I'm to what?" Mother, this was too easy; he won't even be "stripped" of his memories that pushed him over the edge in the first place. Sephiroth laughed. Who knew such a being of infinite wisdom could make such stupid decisions. How delicious. Just wait until Mother hears this.

But after a few moments, he grew visibly weak. He felt dizzy and the nausea was returning. "Wh—what's going on?"

"To simplify things for your inferiority to understand," Lifestream summarized as if it were talking to a child, "I am taking your ambition—I believe that's what the humans call it."

"You're taking my strength! I would expect you to know the difference!" he raged.

"For all others, there is a difference. But not for you. Nothing is for _you_, child of Jenova."

In a final attempt to keep whatever Lifestream was stealing, Sephiroth gathered his focus. If this fucker was attacking the mind, the General in him advised, all he needed was to focus and resist. Unfortunately, it was not that easy. It felt like his body was being pulled on a rack. He could feel the sting in his muscles as they tightened and stretched to their limits. The pain was everywhere. Stabbing, throbbing, hurting.

Sephiroth forced it to the back; his attention focusing on the battle of wills raging within his body. Every which way he fought, he knew the outcome. He was losing. Very slowly, his control was giving way. The sweep of Lifestream's victory was followed by the all-consuming sense of emptiness and loss.

Like second nature, he still couldn't loose. He was created to fight, for violence. Perhaps not always for the pleasure of it—for this was hardly an enjoyable experience—but it made sense to resist. So a desperate idea emerged; he gave Masamune his intention. The blade hummed underneath his fingers in welcome and agreed. Though his defenses crumpled instantly and Lifestream invaded every corner of his being, it was the opening he expected. It was a suicidal choice, but a perfect end for him; that's what the General advised. Mother would agree. He'd do everyone proud.

Sephiroth raised the blade and brought it down with all his power, his concentration on the idea that Masamune will slice through Lifestream as it had to countless others. And the bonds of his defeat slipped like silk.

Although he couldn't have known, a groan bounded from the inner core of the planet to the surface and faded into the stars.

They had both lost in the struggle and Sephiroth awoke—without realizing he had slept—to the world of the living. He was sitting in a pool of mako without a clue of what to do or what he wanted. He felt incredibly bored.

_**- - END OF FLASHBACK - -**_

When he finished the story, Tifa was leaning over the table, totally engrossed. "So, it's a lack of ambition?"

"More or less. I suspect our defeat of each other meant the loss of more."

At first, Tifa really couldn't see that as a worthy restraint for someone like Sephiroth. So he had no ambition, maybe lost some personality, big deal. That can always grow back, right? What could that mean to a killer?

She stared into his mako eyes with skepticism, wondering if he left something crucial out. But he offered nothing more at her silent inquiry; he stared back without a sense of loss or anger. No bitterness or enmity, just a barren hush that would always remain there; unvoiced and consuming.

'How horrible.' The more she stared, the sicker she felt. Still. . . "So, you won't be killing anymore," not disappointment, not a question, not a statement.

"Is that a complaint?" he asked, not quite evading.

"No! No, it's wrong to kill."

"I see," he relinquished with ease. It was like he could hardly think for himself. Is this what Sephiroth would really be like had he been born in a normal manner, without the mad-science tampering? Hojo thought he only created one successful child of Jenova, but the more she observed him, the more she felt that Sephiroth was the biggest failure of them all.

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading!**_


	5. The Smell of Change

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Chapter Five: The Smell of Change**

"You may keep the cloth if you will please removed yourself from my person."

"Wha—oh. Yeah."

At this moment, Yuffie noticed the gunman pinned between her body and the floor and jumped away. "Sorry Vin," she muttered. "Didn't mean to forget about you down there."

"Hmm." Vincent wasn't certain if he should be insulted, pleased, or concerned. 'She forgot I was here. Is that possible?'

_Fucking awesome is what it is,_ Chaos chimed in.

The gunman stood with ease beside the ninja, then stepped away from her in the event she "forgot" anything else. He brushed his human hand around his attire, dust falling to the floor in disagreement. 'Not now demon.'

_Why can't you be forgetful like that? Collide into that brunette; she's bosomy enough to break our fall._ Chaos presented a mental picture of what he had in mind. Vincent frowned at the imagery. It wouldn't have been such a bother except the demon had a picture-perfect mental eye.

From Yuffie's angle, she couldn't see the frown itself (blasted rags) but she noticed the unhappy crease around his eyes and cringed. She kicked herself for breaking into Vin's place so tactlessly that she literally ran into him. 'Ugh,' she thought to herself, staring at the wet cloth in her hand she realized was too expensive to be a rag, 'how could I be this clumsy breaking into a house that isn't even locked?'

She stared and stared at the small bundle in her hands, berating herself for having dull ninja skills. Then she chided herself about berating herself for which she was furiously embarrassed—that is, furious and embarrassed—being caught by The Big Red. Probably the only man in the world with more grace, silence, and stealth than all the ninjas combined; an estimation that no longer included yours truly. Not that she'd let him know that. It might be safe to say it can't get any worse, but she wasn't that stupid. Yuffie still believed in karma; it was never a good idea to tempt fortunes. So when Vincent asked, "Why are you here?" in that short, to-the-point way he asks everything, Yuffie built up a lot of misdirected anger.

Her head shot up indignantly, "Well, la-de-dah! Perhaps this wouldn't have happened if you weren't loitering (she noticed his raised eyebrow at her Big Word) around the front door. Why did you leave it unlocked, if you didn't want people coming in anyway? What were you thinking? And what is this—" she shook the fancy linen, embroidery sewn into the corners "—doing in your pocket? Why did you even give this to me! I asked you for a friggin' rag because you wear nothing but rags! I assumed it was a safe thing to ask for! Instead you hand me this. . . this. ."

"Handkerchief," he supplied dryly. He was smirking beneath his "rags" at her. He respected that she was upset about something he may never understand, but he couldn't help but be amused.

She made an angry, never mind gesture with her free hand, "The point is the_ worth_! Not that it matters now that you've ruined it."

He rolled his eyes at this. _She_ was the one with the drool. Vincent should have known that the ninja would see the worth of the cloth rather than the kind gesture of giving it to her. Though he knew Yuffie to be unbelievably money-conscious for someone so young, he didn't think she was truly this livid about a handkerchief. 'I wonder what is bothering her.'

_Yeah,_ sniggered Chaos, _you._

The demon squeezed his way into the conversation and chattered on the social ineptitudes that created Vincent's personality. Yuffie was saying something about antique market value. There was simply no escape. Being cornered by hostile conversation was completely out of his league. He's a gunman, not a lawyer. Vincent shifted his weight in a blatant movement of one taking his time to waste it. Immortals could do that. He asked both his guests, "Are you done?"

_No._

"No."

He sighed, "Please continue."

"Don't be all polite with me!"

That was a peculiar demand to which he raised his brow in surprise. The gunman tried not to grin at her ludicrous request. However, given their height difference, she couldn't see it anyway, so he indulged. "Then don't continue."

"I will if I so choose!"

_Girl Power._

'I despise you,' he clarified to his inner annoyance. The demon only preened at such praise and compliment.

Yuffie groped for more words. Anything that wasn't related to what she was truly angry about. She deflated, "Okay, actually, I'm done."

Vincent hummed. "I am still wondering why you are here."

"Emergency hygiene problem," she waved the wet handkerchief around, "absolutely could not wait until I found a cleaner house to, ah, enter under wholly lawful conditions."

Yuffie smirked openly, a dare in her voice, and Chaos laughed with delight at her criminal ways. He appreciated creatures of dark habits no matter the species. Vincent would admit (to himself) it's difficult to practice restraint and be serious around such an honestly mischievous woman. Like a true ninja, she embraced her darkness, Vincent thought that deserved respect. (Ex)Turks had that in common, on a professional standpoint (well, Turks used to be professionals back when Vincent was in the game). Both shared a relaxed view of killing, since they did it for a living. It didn't have to involve the usual motivations that normal people needed like revenge, self-defense, faith, glory. . . They've both taken lives in the name of their career, and that gave Vincent a sense of harmony because if anything, Yuffie wouldn't judge. Before he could relax into her strange company, she asked, "And why were you standing there?"

He hummed in his throat, acting nonchalant but giving a frown of displeasure. He knew better than to share his Illogical Over Surge of Emotion theory. That would be disastrous. "No reason."

She stared at him and then decidedly crossed her arms, "You're lying. I can tell."

_Sucks to be you,_ Chaos tsk'ed.

'As opposed to how lucky you are to be stuck with me?' Vincent countered. "What makes you think I was unforthcoming?"

"Oh Vin," she reached out and patted his shoulder, "you're always unforthcoming. I said you were lying."

Yuffie didn't have the satisfaction to see his eyes widen because she turned from him and walked away. Just walked away; hands clasped behind her back. What was happening here? She called his bluff, and there was a distinct, playful flaunt in her step as he gaped at her retreating figure. It didn't last long. He collected himself quickly, "I am not _always_ unforthcoming."

"Hmm," she imitated and turned on her heel to face him. "You sleep like a log, Vinnie. If you're awake then there must be a reason. A good reason. I told you why I'm here."

_Say you were sleep-walking._ That suggestion went ignored. _What? It happens._

Sighing, he relented to the ninja, and she gave a small whoop in victory. "I was awake because I had. . ." Don't say illogical over surge of emotion. Disastrous. Say something else.

_No, say it. I felt an emotion and I was just going out to kill the impudent bastard. Would you like to come on my quest as I further de-humanitize myself? Maybe some sex along the way?_ Vincent continued to disregard Chaos, though he nearly choked on the demon's last comment.

"You had. . ?" Yuffie encouraged; trying not to sound curious or critical but was obviously both.

_A nightmare involving a real life? Cramps? Severe rat problem. You know how they keep mistaking you for a dead corpse and all. . ._

The gunman frowned at the truth of that last comment. Damn rats and their damn nibble marks on his only good, right arm. The scabs itched and he refused to scratch them (at least while anyone was around). "Odd. It was quite odd."

Chaos sulked, _Your ability to ignore me hurts, Vin._

'Practice makes perfect.'

"You had a quite odd." Yuffie summarized. If it were anyone other than Vincent, she would have asked him to elaborate. "Well, I'm happy for you," she gave him a hearty pat on the metal of his arm and smiled.

He hummed, not quite pleased with her taunting at his expense but too curious to be bothered. He didn't remember her being this touchy. Or this confrontational. She tackled him, called his lie, used logic—_logic_ of all things—to get information out of him, and touched his forsaken armor all in the time span of twenty minutes. No one touched his armor on purpose. Yuffie was smiling up at him and he didn't remember her doing that in his direction either. She was treating Vincent like a friend, he realized. Like she does with Lockhart or Nanaki.

It was a kindness he didn't know he could repay. But Vincent was willing to bet Yuffie knew how to calculate the payment into material possessions, so he refrained from thanking her or making her job any easier. In fact, what really coursed through his veins was his newfound interest: the woman Yuffie Kisaragi had grown into. Vincent was fascinated. He wanted to understand everything he could. That is, as long as the attention didn't drive him insane first, then he wanted to learn more about his old companion.

_And fuck her._

'That would be what you want.'

_My wants. Your wants. Same body. We're attracted to her. Don't frown like that, it's unbecoming._

'I would smile every day if you'd just leave.'

_I'd consider trying if you'd let me fuck._ This was an ongoing joke between the two of them. Chaos couldn't leave if he tried, and Vincent couldn't force the demon out either. The only man that could've separated them was dead. Most days he knew it was worth it.

_I'm hungry for Wutanese._

Most days. . .

_**- - - - - - IT DIVIDES RIGHT HERE - - - - - -**_

"Err, Vincent. . ?" Yuffie whispered. He remained unresponsive and his expression was distant. The telltale crease was back. Perhaps the arm pat caused him to spaz out? She thought things were going so well. She was almost having fun until he just. . . blanked out.

Big Red used to do this a lot, she remembered. Cait Sith had assured the group he wasn't a doll, just really weird. Of course, now that the doll idea was out, Cid harbored vampire suspicions and Barrett thought he was a psycho zombie, one that might explode at any moment because the voices told him to. Yuffie just hoped he wasn't contagious. She knew enough about the various poisons and drugs and what it could do to the human condition.

But turning into a random mute, for whatever the reason, was beyond unacceptable. In retrospect, it had been a silly fear, but it was her main motivation for giving him space. That and the man was downright unapproachable socially and in the maybe-steal-his-materia-while-he-sleeps sense. She didn't feel that way anymore. Having her livelihood stolen by her own people gave her a new perspective. It is what it is; and the reject wouldn't have Vincent any other way. Not that she could imagine him as anything else. But this was boring, she had no idea when he'd snap to reality and she wasn't inclined to wait. "Ay, Vin, I'll just put this handkerchief back in your room, m'kay?"

He blinked at her and perhaps nodded in her general direction. Being an opportunist, Yuffie sauntered away with his go-ahead. She climbed the mansion's wide stair and, if memory served, turned right. 'This place is a complete mess.'

The reject descended the hidden spiral staircase and scrunched her nose. 'And it desperately needs a new ventilation system. What the chocolate fudge is down here?'

A giant bat flew low and nearly knocked her head off.

Oh. Well. . . okay. She felt her hair just in case. No droppings.

Just as she was wondering if his room was still locked, her nose happened upon a foul smell. The good news: the door to Vinnie's room was wide open. The bad news: his door was wide open. "UGH!"

Yuffie backed away, her free hand frantically trying to sacrifice itself for her nose. Her other hand searched for a small leather pouch attached to a belt on her leg brace. The reject clutched it like a lifeline and brought it to her nose. She breathed in the dried blossoms, the sweet fragrance filled her body. Geez, no wonder he only slept in here, the stench must knock him unconscious.

She took brave steps forward and entered the room. After each step, she sprinkled a pinch around. There were still plenty left when she reached the gunman's "bed".

The coffin's cover was set-aside in a haphazard way that left the reject curious. Yuffie threw five pinches inside, a few more around, and set the pouch on the wide rim of the coffin. She dusted her hands, spat into them dramatically and then rubbed them together with vigor. 'Let's see how heavy this thing really is.'

Yuffie remembered when Cloud told the group how heavy the lid was (she was in a different room, "just looking" at what valuables were hanging around). But he never mentioned all the cuts and claw marks on the underside. Her fingers felt around and took hold of four, inch-deep indentions around the edge. What a surprise it will be for Vinvin when he returns to take the largest understatement of a nap. He'll pull off the cover and smell Wutai blossoms. Yuffie chuckled and glanced behind her. She was situated to pull the top across the coffin, provided she climbed over the sides backwards. No problem.

Deep breath. Now lift!

. . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . LIFT!

"Holy materia," grunt, "it's . . friggin. . . . heavy. ."

It was the longest five minutes of Yuffie's life, dragging this blasted lid to the coffin. Finally, her calves pressed against the side. Leaning backwards, trying to use her weight, she put her feet inside Vin's bed. Then pulled some more. Unfortunately, she forgot about the leather pouch until it fell into the coffin's darkness.

"This," she huffed, "is all gods' fault." Okay, time to reassess. There were depressions around the edge of the coffin, preventing someone from pushing the lid off sideways. She'd have to lift it then push—hell to the no.

"Okay, plan," it helped to speak aloud. Yuffie was certain where it fell, so. . . the muscles in her back were screaming. . . if she used a high-quality Haste. . . and her arms were shaking. . . then she could snatch the pouch and grab the lid before it fell. Brilliant. "All right, Yuff, on the count of three." Now her legs complained.

One: Yuffie cast Haste; perhaps the equivalent to eating a can of sugar.

Two: The reject repositioned to dive.

"Three!" Yuffie gave the lid a quick yank, thinking it would give her some extra seconds, then plunged into the shadows. She put too much speed into her "leap" and slid across the coffin floor, but she had the bag.

She gave a whoop of triumph and whirled around. As fast as lightning she whipped out her arm to catch the supposedly falling cover. Not to say the coffin top wasn't falling, just not in the direction Yuffie had planned. She realized it too late and her elbow hit the heavy cover; a loud pop echoed down the moldy corridors. The reject shouted in surprise, the pain jolting her nerve endings. The noise was cut short by the soft sound of a lid falling into its rightful place.

"This," a grumpy voice muttered in the pitch-black encasement, "is definitely all the gods' fault."

_**- - - - - - IT DIVIDES HERE, TOO - - - - - -**_

On the other hand, Vincent Valentine was having a swell time arguing with himself. Chaos was in the middle of a particularly and obviously well thought out retort when he paused. That is the very definition of suspicious behavior; demons never stop in the middle of their beloved rants for nothing. As a side thought, Vincent pondered, 'I wonder if I could consult a priest about my pen pal from hell. . .'

_That's desperately sweet of you, but ridiculous. Priests and hell are human concoctions. I come from home. Now where is our little minx? Wasn't she here with you a moment ago?_ Chaos shifted within the confines of Vincent's mind. He could feel the demon walk to his window eyes and peer out into the world. It unnerved him every time; after all these years, he would never be comfortable housing his guest. _I don't see her. Check your hearing, maybe she's in the kitchen. . . Shit, that stuff is as old as you are. And I hate sick people—always coughing._

Vincent rolled his eyes, knowing that in truth, the demon hated all people. He muttered aloud, "Annoying demons."

_Bloody vessels,_ Chaos grumbled back.

"YEOU—. . . ." ricocheted through the old walls.

_What was that?_ the demon asked, intrigued by such an unnatural sound.

Like he needed three guesses. Only one creature in the world made noises like that. He sighed, "Yuffie."

_What are you waiting for, valiant knight? Save the damsel!_ Brief images flicked arbitrarily across his mental eye. In one, Vincent was clad in silver armor on a proud golden chocobo with a lance Cid used to wield. The rest involved, in graphic detail, what would happen after he rescued the grateful "damsel". Sigh. Life is so. . .

'Tell me Chaos,' Vincent thought in outward projection, 'are demons always this theatrically melodramatic?'

_Oh yes,_ the demon confirmed, _Always._

"Damn it."

**. . . . . . 20 Minutes Later. . . . . . **

The only place Vincent didn't search was behind the stone door. Why she would go down there, he was about to find out. The gunman decided to first investigate the laboratory; he didn't want her to break anything combustible. A draft of cold air welcomed him down the spiral stair and he walked quickly. As he passed the door of his room, his peripheral vision caught something suspicious.

Why was his coffin shut?

Cautiously, the gunman entered his room. His senses were straining to determine the trajectory of where Yuffie would strike. Staring into every nook a ninja might inhabit, he could pick traces of her scent over the entire room. This made it impossible to determine her location. If it was a strategic action or perhaps she elected to scavenge everything, Vincent couldn't determine. Both seemed likely. The scent was so familiar, he always associated it with Yuffie, but there was something different. By the time he approached, his guest called it to his attention.

_The ninja put potpourri in your room,_ Chaos was having a fit of laughter, _What a tactful hint!_ Vincent paused to imagine what a demon would look like, not to have fallen via swords or strong magic, but a bad sense of humor.

He set aside that daydream for another time and leaned over the coffin. The gunman's ear stopped a few inches away. Someone was breathing inside his coffin. Based on the rhythms and heartbeat, a certain someone was _sleeping_ in his coffin. He brought up his right arm, clasped his fingers around the edge, and tossed it aside. 'Stay. There.' he thought to the object. The scent was even more pronounced now.

Hmm, potpourri. . . maybe.

Despite the racket he didn't avoid making, Yuffie stayed asleep. She gave a little snuff and unconsciously rubbed the angry red bruise on her elbow. The instigator. He could not begin to fathom how this situation came about, but he blamed the elbow.

_Give it a taste and make it all better._ Chaos suggested.

'Kiss,' Vincent corrected, 'you kiss it and make it better.'

_Well I meant _taste_. But it your mind's in the gutter, then, I told you so._

"Yuffie," he called softly, "Yuffie, you're sleeping in a coffin." He frowned and lightly shook the woman's shoulder. After a pause, he shook again. To his surprise, Yuffie's entire body jolted awake and she seized his extended arm automatically.

She was fast—possibly faster than himself. The ninja placed one hand to his elbow and the other to his shoulder, using foreign pressure points stinging his arm into submission. This happened while she was throwing him to the floor beside his coffin. Yuffie leapt into the air and in slow motion, Vincent couldn't imagine a more fascinating creature in action. Chaos was inclined to agree (for once).

He was in the process of standing when the ninja's knees came crashing down upon his shoulders. Vincent had foreseen this part. He studied Wutanese martial arts years ago. Instead of falling to the floor—again—cushioning her fall, he braced and remained standing.

"Wah? Vinn—" thud "—OW!" was the best way to describe it.

He wasn't one for excessive human contact—and he certainly reached his limit for the year—but he was also a man with a sense of etiquette. It would be rude not to offer a woman a hand up. The gunman leaned down and carefully offered the forearm of his clawed appendage since she messed up his useful one. It took her a moment, a very tense moment for the gunman, but she accepted it. His crimson eyes performed a quick once over, "You'll be all right."

_Wrong answer,_ the demon warned. _May I play?_

'No.'

"Is that your idea of comforting, you—you jerk!" Vincent opened his mouth, not knowing what to say, when Yuffie continued, "I fell on my butt, Vince! You can't just say 'you'll be all right' to that!"

_Let me play!_

"You attacked me. I'll be all right." Vin, Vinvin, Vince. . . what else would she call him other than his actual name?

"Then I didn't really attack you," she snapped.

He didn't bother to hold back the grin; mostly because she couldn't see it. His small revenge.

The ninja didn't see it that way. Her hand grabbed the cloth covering his face, with that same blurry speed, and yanked it down. "Do not taunt me with your expression, Vinnie, unless I can see it."

The startled disbelief couldn't begin to describe the look on his face. She knew?

"Hey! You're pretty handsome!" she exclaimed, ignorant to his distress. "You shouldn't cover a face like yours from the public. That's just a shame. . uh. . Hello? Vin?"

_My turn. . ._

Yuffie waved her hand in front of Vincent's face, "Ground zero to Vinnie, hello? Vin?"

That time, Chaos caught the ninja's waving and smirked. "Hello ground zero," his voice was smooth, subtle, and deep. Oh yes, he was enjoying every moment of this. The demon was incredibly pleased how easy it was to surge forward when his host let his guard down. He sensed Vincent's presence in the recesses of his own mind, probably wondering how he got _there_. Chaos knew he only had so much time until his host figured out the backdoor. He would make the most of it.

Yuffie didn't fail to notice a change and hesitated, calculating. Chaos would have none of that. He removed Vincent's bandanna and stretched out the arm he had captured earlier.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"You hurt your arm before, I'm just mending it," the demon replied softly. Vincent's dark hair fell past the shoulder and brushed against the ninja's tenderly extended arm. Luckily, it hid his pleased expression as well as Vincent's gleaming red eyes. Eyes alive and unpredictable—the eyes of Chaos.

He wrapped the cloth around Yuffie's bruised elbow and tied it securely. "Now," he started with light humor and a dark voice, his gaze trailing lower, "I don't have another bandanna for—"

Yuffie waved her hand negligently for silence. "No need for that, Vinvin. Turn around."

Chaos felt a tinge of something unlikable about the minx addressing him as Vinvin. He was no Vincent, he was Chaos. The demon knew it wasn't fair to place this displeasure on her, but the urge to correct her wasn't spawned from logic. Nonetheless, Chaos curiously did as he was told. A second later, Yuffie tackled him from behind, clasping her arms around Vincent's neck. Instantly, his demon's instincts ran wild and murderous. Reflex more than the demon's control had him holding Vincent's shotgun.

_Chaos stop!_ Vincent began to surge forward, forcibly regaining control. So he figured out how to speak. Fast learner.

"Relax my sleepy friend," Yuffie patted Vincent's shoulder soothingly. She also wiggled her arms around their jugular in a peaceful indication of holding on, rather than strangulation. "It's called a piggy back." Unfortunately for the real Vincent, in the midst of gaining his body back, relaxing their hold on the gun meant Vincent had to relax, too. Chaos remained the dominant for another ten minutes. If he was lucky. Yuffie continued to pet his shoulder and the demon nearly purred with satisfaction. "Just scoop your arms under my legs," she instructed.

She didn't have to tell him twice. The demon had to be careful with the left appendage, but it all worked out eventually. "Where to, minx?"

"The nearest bathroom," Yuffie replied. 'Funny nickname. Better than Cid's idea of a nickname, anyway.'

Chaos started for the stairs, but had to ask, "Why there?"

"You'll see." And though neither Chaos nor Vincent could see Yuffie's nefarious smirk, it was for the best. It was doubtful either of them would take her anywhere with that kind of smirk and her kind of reputation.

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading**_


	6. Relocating

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Chapter Six: Relocating**

Sephiroth watched the woman busy herself with nothing, all the while trying to avoid eye contact. She put another spoon of sugar in her mug and stirred it too slowly for it to dissolve. He was beginning to realize that this woman was full of pointless little habits. And it seemed no one thought to correct her on them, either.

There was a moment of silence between them, but Sephiroth knew that wouldn't last as long as he would like. She would have more questions. He could tell from the way she kept glancing at him, as if trying to locate a secret. Good luck. He turned his attention back to his tea. It was a foreign aroma; either made him uncomfortable or very soothed. The flavor was addictive, no argument there. He would never admit this, but overall, he liked tea. Of course, this was the first time he's ever tried it. The only drinks he could compare with were the water and the liquor mixed with water that SOLDIER happened to call ale.

All right, he liked the scent too.

It reminded him of flowers. He had a slight knowledge of flowers (they need sun and don't like to be stepped on), but he remembered the smell. Sephiroth racked his brains to recall something more specific. He didn't come up with much. Daisies are flowers.

Daisy tea. That sounded nice. This whole experience was just. . . nice. He never felt _nice_ before. New and nice and disturbing. Just like Daisy tea.

"What happened to your sword?"

Sephiroth covered his confusion by taking another sip of the daisy tea. It gave him time to consider her question. One he didn't understand. "What sword?"

"You know, your sword?" Tifa took a butter knife and made emphatic, sword-like gestures in the air. With anyone else, she might've been too embarrassed to create imaginary swordplay but this was a man the world thought, dreamed, prayed was dead. What was there to be embarrassed about?

He stared at her actions, wide eyed, on the verge of scoffing her strange arm flailing until his brain connected the dots. He'd forgotten that people didn't understand 'his sword' was his companion. They've spilt so much blood together, worked so hard to bring about the Promised Land; he always considered them to be partners. Any being as powerful as Masamune knew no master. "Are you referring to Masamune?"

She raised a critical eyebrow, "I'm referring to your sword."

"I've never owned a sword."

The woman rolled her eyes. That was new. Apparently it was too much for her to believe. Out of everything that has happened today, this is where she drew the line. Sephiroth felt the beginnings of a sigh, but the bruise in the middle of his shoulder blades reminded him not to. "Fine, fine," she acquiesced, "What happened to your Masamune."

He was about to correct her—Masamune was not his—when the question seeped deeper. Hmm. He tilted his head back. Where did he leave Masamune? In Lifestream or that pool of mako he woke up from? In truth, he hadn't consciously noticed its absence until she asked. But now that she brought it up, a heaviness lifted from his mind, revealing questions he wouldn't have asked on his own. Sephiroth faltered; did he leave Masamune? He knew that, as a General and partner, Sephiroth would never leave his companion alone and unattended. It was also likely that it was waiting for him. That was a practical certainty, yet he could not find the slightest urge or reason to do more. "In Lifestream, maybe."

"So, you just left it there?" She reached for another spoonful of sugar.

A General would never have done such a thing, but he did. . . He thinks.

All he was interested in at this moment was right now. Tea. Not bloodshed or revenge, just tea. Even the dull throb of Jenova was at the bottom of Sephiroth's attention span. If only he could bring himself to ponder why this was, but those thoughts were beyond him. Lifestream's plan was subtle but effective.

Speaking of tea, Sephiroth snatched the container away from her little habits and set it on a different table. "Yes, I left Masamune."

The woman's frown was threatening, "What are you doing with my sugar?"

"Relocating." As a General, he would never be intimidated by a lone woman. He simply chose to maintain eye contact with the daisy tea. Really. It looked nice.

"And why would you do that? It was fine where it was!"

Sephiroth snorted, "It was within your reach."

"That's where I like it," she retorted, leaning her chair sideways to reach for the sugar.

"Yes, I've noticed that," he said, reaching out with his foot and placing weight on the chair's leg, bringing it down.

The woman's chair landed on all fours with a thunk. She opened her mouth ready to rant and rave and maybe hit him about all things sugar, before Sephiroth's survival instincts kicked in, "How is business these days?"

"You mean the days of peace now that you're dead?" she replied gratingly.

Sephiroth raised his brow. "Yes. Tell me about them."

_**- - - - - - GLIMPSE - - - - - -**_

Five figures shuffled awkwardly against the ground, walking like puppets on strings. Their pace was loose and full of near-miss steps on the rocky terrain. The hiss of their breathing was haggard, full of frustration. Dawn was coming and it was against their nature to walk in it, but their mark was so close.

So they pressed on, hopeful that this town would be their playground to dine. One of the four walked the long way around the opening, keeping to the shade. This one heaved against the fresh air the loudest. It ignorantly clomped past a boy hiding in the brush. He was beyond notice, being hidden so well and keeping so silent. Like any child, he'd had enough nightmares to know he couldn't run. He kept his hands over his mouth and shut his eyes and waited for them to go away.

But when the figure stumbled close to his hiding place, the boy yelped in alarm. All the creatures jerked in the boy's direction, turning their twisted figures to the noise. The closest scratched at its forearm curiously and shot its hand into the leaves blindly. The boy tried to run, but its cold dark fingers had encircled his neck. The puppets came together excitedly, closing in on the screaming youth.

Instinctively he lashed out, kicking and punching, but the grip around his neck remained. With each yell, he grew pale. His energy drained away and his heart was beginning to slow. There was a brief glimpse of a numbered tattoo and red scratch marks on its arm. That was the boy's last image before he faded into an endless cold.

The figure dropped the deadweight to the ground, licking its fingers. Together they turned away from the corpse with movements less erratic than before.

_**- - - - - - END OF GLIMPSE - - - - - -**_

"This was ironic. . ." the martial artist said.

Sephiroth blinked his mako green eyes, suddenly unable to focus on the woman's story. What was he just thinking about? It felt important.

". . and then, my neighbor grabbed. ."

It was almost like a memory, but what were those images? His hand twitched at the lingering feel of flesh in his palm; a little piece of life struggling against his grip. What a curious memory. He took another sip of the daisy tea, wondering if he'd recently killed a child and forgot about it. Sephiroth didn't recall killing anyone on his way to Nibelheim. No, he couldn't have. But those mountains, the path, and the abandoned mako factory in the background; it was the same path he took. That much he recognized.

It felt so recent. Like these little glimpses were happening right now.

"So, as you can imagine, I tackled. ."

Sephiroth rubbed his hands along the sides of the tea mug, trying to clear his mind. What was this distraction? He didn't want to care. Although it felt so important, just on the tip of his tongue. The understanding continued to elude him, teasing him with little glimpses.

"Sephiroth?" she asked, if not a little carefully.

"How annoying."

A frown graced her lips, her mauve eyes narrowing just enough to be taken seriously, "What is annoying?"

"The—"

_**- - - - - - GLIMPSE - - - - - - **_

They stood atop the hill anxiously with their backs to the coming sun. Their shadows stretched ominously upon the small town. They hooded their faces against the light, scanning the area for their mark. As the morning rays touched their knobby ankles, the shadows convulsed. Dawn was upon them. But it was so close.

The time to move was now. Two creatures deviated, sensing power in an old house to the right. The others sought to move forward into town.

_**- - - - - - END OF GLIMPSE - - - - - -**_

"—. . . . . . ."

Tifa was finding the way he gazed right through her unnerving. Not to brag, but she wasn't used to people overlooking her. Whether that was above or below the collarbone was a matter of an individual's preference, but still. She leaned forward and snapped her fingers in front of Sephiroth's faraway face. "Hey?"

His expression remained the same, but his arm whipped out and caught her wrist. He did nothing beyond that and a gut feeling warned the martial artist to wait for him to speak. Distractedly, she noticed how warm his hand was. Almost too warm. Sephiroth cocked his head to the side; he whispered curiously, "Did you see that?"

Tifa glanced around, "I don't see anything."

"What about now?" he asked.

To humor him, she looked again. That bad feeling in the pit of her stomach was happening. The one that said she fucked up. The man was unhinged. She needed to get out of his reach, get her gloves, knock him around, and then PHS for help. It's what she should've done in the first place. It's what Cloud would have done. Damn it. Now is not the time to sulk! "I still don't—"

"Now, right now. Do you see it? It looks like. . Nibelheim. No, it looks like your bar." Sephiroth's tone was slightly confused but intrigued. More importantly, his grip on her wrist was getting tighter.

Stupid Lifestream's tampering must've given him hallucinations. Great. Just what an already crazy ex-murderer needs—more crazies. Tifa remained calm and made a show of looking around her bar. Yeah, of course it looked like her bar; what else was it supposed to look like? "Well, I know the Lifestream did something to you," she kept her voice neutral, trying to pull her wrist away discreetly, "but maybe it's time you leave. You know, get your brain looked at—"

Sephiroth snapped to attention at 'leave', he didn't hear anything else. He gave an impressive yank, enough to lift her body over her good china and into his waiting embrace. "I agree," he said absentmindedly, "we should go."

Today was a day of surprises. Tifa managed to choke out some angry noises, too shocked to speak coherently. Particularly when he put a strong arm around her waist and carried her around like a sack of potatoes by his side. Her boots just hovered above the wooden floor, but her hair wasn't as lucky. It swept the ground softly, promising a fierce battle with its enemy brush.

And though his pace was steady, the stride was hardly slow. Sephiroth grabbed his clothes from a standing stool with enough insight to snatch Tiff's ultimate weapon, Feather Touch, from a mount on the wall. He also grabbed the emergency, just in case Gotta Save The World Again pack next to the gloves.

"What do you think you're doing?" It registered that if her plan to PHS her friends were to work, she'd need to take control of the situation. Tifa twisted out of his grasp, but that's as much as she did. The PHS was in her pack. And _he_ was busy rummaging through it.

Sephiroth didn't acknowledge her, too preoccupied with inspecting the goods. Once satisfied, he retied it and slung it over his shoulder. He mumbled, "Hmm, yes, we need a destination."

What was this 'we' stuff? Oh, if only she had her gloves. . .

"But where. . ." he trailed off.

"Screw this!" she muttered. Sephiroth is too unbalanced to care if she took Feather Touch. She snatched it and jumped away.

He let her have it, seemingly nodding in approval. The martial artist gritted her teeth; he won't be nodding once she's done with him and donned her gloves. She'd forgotten what a perfect fit they were. The materia equipped inside glittered briefly in welcome.

She turned to face him, arms up, elbows in, but he was already at her side, so she sort of collided into his chest. Tifa was caught between her cultivated manners and her natural instinct to beat the shit out of him. Sephiroth didn't take notice of her hesitation. In fact, he hardly registered the incident. He smoothly wrapped that same arm around her shoulders and practically dragged her outside. This was not the plan. "H-hey!"

Fine. She needed to be outside for the face-off anyway. Once they were out in the open, Tifa whirled away from his hold. In the midst of getting away, something caught her attention, a movement out of the corner of her eye. There was a strange figure only a block away, but despite the proximity, she couldn't focus on its details. It was too dark. Not "it was too dark outside", more like "the it was too dark".

"Was that what you were talking about?" she asked, inexplicably entranced by the figure. Then another figure appeared from around the corner. And another on a rooftop. The way they were closing in that pattern made her feel hunted. It wasn't a pleasant sensation. 'They're dangerous,' she realized slowly, her brain in a haze. She kept staring at them. Couldn't run. Fighting wasn't an option. 'But they're so. . .'

_Do not resist us_ they seemed to whisper in her ear. How creepy. She should definitely get rid of them.

Don't run. Stay where you are. We'll come to you.

'. . fucking creepy.'

Sephiroth was marching toward Nibelheim's main exit when she asked her question. He was surprised by how quiet her voice sounded until he turned around. What the hell was she doing all the way over there? "Why are you just standing there?"

He stalked over to her side, ready to carry her out when she asked another question, "Sephiroth, do they look familiar to you?"

He grunted at her, "You do not recognize them?"

"I should?" They did and didn't look familiar. Tifa stared intently, trying to place them. She didn't have a concrete reason, but she knew they weren't human. Creepy. One of the three had its hand raised. A black energy was forming around its upraised palm.

She wasn't a materia expert, but. . . The martial artist reached out and tugged on Sephiroth's sleeve. Her brain started to wake up, but her body felt sluggish. She tugged harder. Sephiroth was a master of deadly stuff, he would know. That cast looked remarkably a lot like a Sudden Death. They were in the open courtyard, without counter equipment, and within close proximity of the enemy.

Tifa tugged again, and he mumbled something incoherent, watching the sky as if his life depended on it.

Okay, bad analogy. Shit, they needed to find cover. But Sephiroth wouldn't budge. "Sephiroth! If you don't move your ass _right now_, I'm leaving you behind."

The General in him didn't like ultimatums, but it alarmed him nonetheless. Some humans had no patience. With his free arm, he grabbed the woman—she started protesting again, even though he was doing as she ordered; this was either funny or frustrating—and leapt into the sky. When he was normal, he could have jumped fifty feet, efficiently shifting from leap to flight.

This situation was unsteady, more than he calculated anyway. He only covered twenty feet, not far enough to Escape the range of Sudden Death, and they started falling before he could catch the sense of flight. He's never flown without Jenova before. She was always there to dissolve the impossibility of human flight and make a connection between his energy and the sky. He never bothered to ask what the secret to flying was, since he thought Jenova would always be with him.

Whatever it was, it was too hard to complete by himself (that was a first), but Sephiroth managed to catch a strong draft coming from the mountains that lifted them away from Nibelheim.

"Good God of Death," she gasped at his side, "Are we. . flying?"

'If only,' he thought dryly. He didn't feel like divulging just how far his limits extended. He had to say something, the last few times he ignored her had a bad ending for him. "Only for short distances."

"Oh."

Sephiroth was just pleased that she stopped struggling. 'This must be her first time,' he realized. He had thought a teammate of hers owned an airship, but he didn't really care enough to know. Besides, he needed to concentrate against the turbulence of the wind currents.

Tifa couldn't believe it. She was flying—seriously _flying_. Oh Gods, it felt wonderful and thrilling and very cold. Another sign that winter was approaching. She was too proud to burrow into Sephiroth's warmth, and too amazed to really pay attention to the chill anyway. They soared over the sloping valleys, slowly reaching higher in altitude. But the smaller the trees looked the smaller Tifa felt. After the newness wore off, a growing sense of mortality crept up her spine.

What if Sephiroth dropped her? Crazy people do that.

Oh Gods, here she was, accompanying her father's murderer. What was she _doing_? Hanging from her waist by his arm, hundreds of feet in the air and happily enjoying the view? Why was she even enjoying this with _him_ of all people? And why was she running away from those creatures? They cast Sudden Death and she left them in Nibelheim unwarned! Tifa put her hands to her face and groaned. What the hell did she just become involved in? And how could she get him to put her down without killing her? Due to the turmoil of her emotions, she couldn't think of any way to be clever about the situation. 'I feel like such a fool. I should've done what Cloud would have done.'

Gods, if Cloud were here. . . no. No wait. Perhaps she didn't want to think about that right now. If wishes came true and she wished Cloud to be here, then she'd die of shame. That was the first time Tifa ever wished Cloud to not be with her, but she hoped with all her heart he'd never see her in the arm of his greatest enemy. "By the way, I don't want to die from anything but old age."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sephiroth didn't understand why she brought it up, but he burned this fact into his brain. Right next to her self-proclaimed hatred for him. Women are so. . . he sighed. This time, it was a natural response.

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading**_


	7. The Smell of Change Part II

_**Love Your Hot Sauce**_

**Chapter Seven: The Smell of Change Part II**

This was Chaos's first time physically relating to Yuffie and it wasn't quite as fun as he planned. The touching was great, of course, but. . . she wasn't the boisterous creature he perceived her to be. He pictured Yuffie Kisaragi as a proud, dangerous ninja. Regardless of any hazards or trouble that came her way, she would outlast her competitors; she would stand the tallest. Still, he was discovering a separate side, one that can only be understood while inhabiting a vessel. Her body was much too small for her spirit. It wasn't until this moment, piggy-backing her weight to the bathroom, he truly understood how frail humans were. It was easy to forget about the significance of mortality since demons were, in essence, immortal.

It's possible to physically die if cleaved enough times, or blown to pieces, or some other extravagant means, but the consciousness was eternal. As such, his kind's concept of death was more like a step back than a step off. If killed, they would leave their corporeal vessel and return to their home; a plane of existence just out of human reach. The only way a demon could cross to and from the human realm was through a large gathering of pure mako. But, ever since Shinra, options were narrow on where to gate across.

From Chaos's observations, it was the only good service Shinra has ever performed for the public. The irony that Shinra nearly eradicated his race from human memory without so much as a thank you was very pleasing to ponder on a rainy day.

Yuffie shifted against their back and the demon experienced the movement with every of Vincent's nerve endings. So small, but so wonderful. It's why he kept his arms just slack enough, so she'd eventually slip down and have to pull herself up against them again. Chaos made sure to bind each second to his fathomless memory. That was another strange thing about humans; they forget years of their lives. Demons? Not so much.

Neither said a word to the other, both preoccupied in their thoughts. His minx definitely calmed in the years since their travels. But time does that to mortals.

Yuffie was planning out her strategy, Vincent was just unhappy (surprise surprise), and Chaos was simply enjoying life. Experiences were better with a body. Sights, sounds, smells, even thoughts. Chaos was always fond of his little minx, but being with her and thinking about her at the same time? Glorious. Maybe if he was very cunning, he could be with the ninja again, when she was picking people's pockets. After all, he was a demon and doing wrong was sexy. But then again, demons don't have currency; they took what they wanted without a "medium of exchange". Just like Yuffie.

Only when Vincent chose to limit break could Chaos feel the wondrous simplicity of reality that humans took for granted. In fact, some aspects the demon adored most were things that mortals not only overlooked, but were determined to defy. Gravity for instance: all these stupid humans mucking about trying to fly or jump or glide. And that one fellow—the blonde with the stick—actually tried to go into space. Can you imagine? A silly, foul-mouthed mortal floating in space. It was enough for any demon to scoff at.

Enough was enough. Chaos liked the idea of an invisible force keeping you on the ground. In his homeland, gravity was unheard of. Infants, if they were careless, could fall off the earth and suffocate in the darkness of space. Demons had to fly downward to reach dirt, instead of avoiding it like humans did. Getting dirty is an accomplishment, a badge of talent to his kind. Home was a twisted place, but Chaos couldn't imagine any other place he'd like to—what was the phrase?—"hang his hat".

The ninja nudged him from his daydreams. Chaos looked around, surprised they were already here. Yuffie felt otherwise, "Finally. Now on to phase three of my ingenious plan."

Ouu. Plans. Sounded like fun. Chaos loved Yuffie's plans, they were so disastrous.

_Put her down._

'Tone, Vinnie,' he chided his host. 'You're starting to sound jealous.'

_Put. Her. Down._

'But I like her where she is.'

_She doesn't. Pay attention to your surroundings._

Vincent had a point that the demon didn't want to acknowledge. The minx was nudging him to put her down. He reluctantly let her slide to the floor. As he watched her walk away to activate "phase three", Chaos daydreamed a little more. She'd make a fine mate.

_I did not hear you just think that,_ Vincent growled.

'What? She's single isn't she?' They watched her move from counter to counter, completely unaware of their scrutiny.

_I wouldn't know,_ Vincent replied promptly. Chaos thought he sounded defensive.

'Doesn't really matter. She can be mine.' Chaos mostly thought this to tempt Vincent, who was speechless with horror. Though a small part of him approved of the idea. Possession was an understood concept in the demon realm. Owning each other was part of the relationship. He wondered if Yuffie, being human, would adapt well to a demon. . . what was the word? . . . boyfriend. Over the years Chaos observed human interactions and the only thing that was certain in relationships with a human female was that they were confusing creatures.

Chaos found it amusing, the way mortals courted one another—he soon discovered that females court their intended as much as the males did. Well, if anyone could call _that_ courting. Flinging their bodies or money or beauty around, thinking this method will lead to a meaningful relationship. How ridiculous. Or sometimes they'd do the exact opposite and watch from a distance, hoping their intended was telepathic enough to pick up his-her interest.

The Tifa female was a prime example. She was obviously attracted to the spiky human cloud. But she didn't do anything about it. She never bit him or purred or named him or warded off other females that would seek to claim him. She didn't express her affection physically, socially. . . or just outwardly. The only thing she did correctly was gain his trust. It was a wonder the human race was still thriving without a proper courting structure or universal mating ritual.

Vaguely, Chaos acknowledged the sound of running water coming from Vincent's sensitive ears. But it was just water, so the demon didn't bother. 'I hear no objections, I'm taking Yuffie.'

_No,_ Vincent proclaimed flatly, mentally clouting Chaos upside the head.

'Why not? Is she yours?'

_She doesn't belong to anyone, least of all me._

Chaos rolled Vincent's eyes. Some humans are so forlorn and prone to suffering. . . it's like one bad thing happened to them and now they're determined to be stupid. But demons don't play Dr. Phil, Chaos had no concern for helping Vincent find a mate. 'All right, all right. We can share her, but dibs on the weekends.'

_NO!_ Vincent exclaimed darkly. That was the worst suggestion Vincent had ever heard in his life.

'You're right. You'd just be a third wheel anyway.'

_What?_ Chaos couldn't decipher if his host was wearily curious and offended, or jealous and offended. Either or, the demon doubled over with laughter. It was so much fun!

_**- - - - - - PERSPECTIVE CHANGE - - - - - -**_

Yuffie Kisaragi realized this was the perfect moment to act. While Big Red was distracted with, uh, with himself, she could get the bathwater running. Right in front of him! Ha! Brilliant.

Of course, there was a lot of dust in the bathtub, so the reject had to quickly rinse that away. She didn't know when Vinvin would come to his senses and didn't want to get caught making a nice soak for her darkly clad friend.

Which presented another problem.

'Gawd, he has on so many layers!' Yuffie thought as she casually pitched soaps into the tub.

It was a different outfit from before. Only a trained eye—like hers—could notice the difference, considering Vincent's fashion sense. The reject chuckled; he looked like a character out of the tales her traitorous Elders would tell her at night. Vinnie wore a dark, not figure-flattering cloak that hung from his shoulders like a thick silhouette. Underneath, he was clad in a knee-length coat; then there was a thin, dark red jacket. She could also detect a black shirt underneath. His midnight hair fell loosely and tangled with a red scarf draped around his shoulders; Vincent's composed, handsome face was completely exposed. A man that was almost inhuman, with skin so moonlit but hair and attire so dark.

He looked untouchable and inviting.

Whoa. Yuffie blinked, where did that come from? Vincent wasn't inviting. He was Vincent—grumpy, sleepy, and abrupt. That's it. Not handsome or mysterious. Romantic feelings were out of the question, she pinched herself.

"Focus, Yuffie," she muttered. She had a mission of world-changing importance to perform. Vincent needed an intervention and if no one else was going to step up, then it was all on her. The boots would be the biggest obstacle. The reject's gaze cast downward to her silent companion's feet. They were sturdy, built for practical uses like battle and didn't look like they'd come off without one. But so what? She was the great ninja Yuffie Kis. . . . well, she wasn't, but. .

Another wave of hurt and frustration inflamed her heart. It captured her lungs and made her toes curl. All of her friends were great experts—Cloud was an excellent swordsman, Vincent a perfect marksman, Tifa could kick anyone's ass. . . but what about Yuffie? She couldn't call herself any of those things, and now she couldn't even be a simple ninja.

So she was eccentric for a future Lady Wutai. She was untraditional and maybe a little money silly and maybe wanted to bring her people out of the shadows to a new future. Yuffie was the rightful heir to a distinguished line. How she must disgrace her ancestors: a nobody reject and all she had to show for it was a bubble bath.

She took a breath and straightened her spine. What happened has happened and it couldn't be changed. Just as quickly as it had come, Yuffie shook away the self-pity and bitterness. She had a duty to fulfill. Just stay busy. Don't think or talk about it until Tifa. She would understand, give Yuffie the comfort she needed to cry her heart out. Her eyes shifted to Vincent's face, only to find him staring at her first. It caught Yuffie by surprise to see his intense crimson stare on her.

He didn't look impassive and silent like she remembered. He was more alive and, Gawds help her, thoughtful. Playful? Nah, that was pushing it. Thoughtful.

"What are you doing, little minx?" Vincent took a few steps forward, refusing to break eye contact. His stare was compelling, as if will alone could make her do his bidding.

The reject felt the unusual urge to counter-act by stepping backwards, 'Damn it, he's caught on.'

He stepped forward again, she stepped back; her calves pressed against the bathtub. "Nothing to be concerned about," she answered carefully, trying to evade the question.

"On the contrary, kit, anything you do concerns me." He responded without fault and was steps away from invading her personal space. The closer he came, the more Yuffie could feel his alluring presence. "After all," he continued in a husky, subtle tone, "you are my—"

Vin's eyes began to dilate then narrow like a flickering candle, his expression was faraway. Sure signs that he wasn't focusing on the present anymore.

That was weird. He's being so animated with her. . . but food for thought at another time. She feared he had discovered her Smell of Change Plan. Close but saved by his weirdness. She sat on the edge of the tub and bent over to turn off the water. When she pushed herself from the rim to stand, Yuffie ran into something solid.

This wasn't a situation she was expecting to happen twice in one day. But Vincent had forgot to stop walking when he blanked out and here she was, sandwiched between bubbles and a hard place. "Um—Vinnie?"

That was enough to snap him back to the present. After he took in their closeness, he smirked. The effect was a little dizzying.

'Oh my gawd! I just saw Vin smirk! Vincent Valentine does not smirk!' Yuffie pinched her side, but couldn't seem to wake up. 'This isn't real, this isn't real. . .'

However, he did more than that. The gunman leaned closer and pressed his forehead to hers, making it impossible to look anywhere but in his dark, beautiful eyes. "My my, what a situation."

His eyes were suggestive and playful while hers were surprised and stubborn. Then he leaned even closer. Yuffie's nerves went haywire. 'Is he—but he wouldn't. . !'

Vincent's nose only nuzzled hers affectionately, his midnight hair falling around their faces and brushing against her flushed cheeks. It was enough to make the reject loose balance and fall over backwards; a resonant splash went throughout the manor.

When Yuffie's head broke the surface, she saw a glimpse of surprise beneath the water she splashed on him. The corners of his lips twitched, his shoulders trembled and he stood tall and guffawed. What the? Her ears were not deceiving her, Vincent Valentine guffawed. Laughed. To hoot accordingly; the act of expressing one's amusement aloud. "And here I thought minxes weren't fond of water," Chaos bent over and offered his good arm to her. "Am I that difficult to be around?"

The wicked glint in her eyes gave the reject's mischief away. It was too late to pull back. Yuffie lashed out her soaked arms and yanked the demon in with her. "Only when you smell as bad as your room," was her reply.

The Vincent that reappeared from the soapy water looked disgruntled. He looked even more put out when the reject handed him a bar of soap. For that reason, Yuffie felt a familiarity about him again. No weirdness. The playfulness left his eyes for a silent stare. "What—" he started blankly.

"Is this for, you may be wondering?" Yuffie interjected cheerfully, half-lying through her teeth, "We're cleaning you up, so we'll be presentable for Tifa." She actually had to pull Vincent's human arm up and place the soap in his hand. Then close his fingers around it. Figures.

"And why. ."

"Because I miss her, and you get to come." Whether you like it or not, you lucky dog, you.

"But—"

"You owe me," she interjected, not the least bit concerned about Vinnie's apparent unwillingness to venture from this horrible, ancient, dark, dirty, justifiably abandoned mansion.

"I see," he murmured. She nodded in return, pleased he gave in.

Yuffie leaned over the tub again, pulling herself out, brushing the wet hair from her face. "Now, all we need. . ."

Vincent was busy working up a decent lather with his one hand and not looking at how the ninja's clothes fit her wet body. A gentleman doesn't stare. 'This would be easier if I had two hands,' he thought with slight aggravation. Without warning, the bar of soap slipped from his grip and upon instinct, he reached for it with his left arm. And even though little force was applied to his action, one bar quickly became five. The slices slipped between his claws and went their separate ways into the sudsy depths. 'Noooo. .' he groaned.

The gunman was going to have an internal conflict about soap until something smacked into the back of his head.

"There!" Yuffie proclaimed, "You will—I mean, you may of your own violation—change into that when you're done washing up while I'll bur—I mean, wash—your very, uh, _nice_ garments. Then we'll hit the store, get you new stuff to wear, I'll grab my slobber monster Yuki, and finally we can visit Tiff!"

Vincent reached around and found a pair of swim trunks. It was a plain black with gray stripes running vertically along the sides. Nothing special, but hardly something that could be lying around the manor. "Where did you. ."

"I didn't steal em if that's what you're asking."

She responded a little too quickly. Vincent quirked a dark brow to the woman who owned such a distinct reputation for _happening_ upon objects. He opened his mouth.

"So where's that bar of soap I gave you?" Yuffie asked hastily, yet sternly. "And why haven't you undressed yet?"

He closed his mouth again. "Hopeless," he mumbled softly before pulling off his cloak and setting it on the tub's rim.

"What was that?" Yuffie had already turned her back to him and didn't dare give him a proper glare now that she heard him shifting in the water.

"Nothing to be concerned about," Vincent replied carelessly, quoting the reject.

She huffed in response, but smiled at the ever-so tiniest hint of Vinvin humor. Yuffie chanced a sideways glance at the growing pile of clothes she volunteered to wash. By now, he'd taken off his vest and black shirt. Apparently, underneath that was another shirt, also black. He had removed his belts and boots, too.

'It'd be faster if I burned them,' she thought wistfully.

"And do not burn them," he said as if he could read her thoughts. His voice snapped Yuffie's eyes around and she managed to nod like a bored ninja rather than a mischievous reject.

"Done," Vincent announced a minute later.

She nodded again, not trusting herself to speak words of reassurance whilst the clothes were in her care. Her opinion of the clothes didn't increase by the time she stumbled out the door with armfuls of his outfit hanging out. Yuffie was more than ready to burn them. She carefully closed the door behind her. "You better be clean when you come out of I'll burn your clothes!"

A moment of silence. "If you burn my clothes, I will burn your scented flower bag."

"Then I'll burn your—your. . ." Damn it, did he have anything of value left?

"Yes?" he taunted.

For the first time in her life, Yuffie understood the benefits of owning nothing but the clothes on your back—so to speak. "Well, none of this'll happen if you will just develop some hygiene!"

Another moment of silence, "I shall keep that in mind."

"Gee, thanks." Yuffie replied, not her most witty of retorts, but it would have to do. The reject flung the clothes over the side to the floor below—who in their right mind would want to carry all that down a flight of stairs? She watched them fall as they landed near the front door. Good throw, she patted herself on the back.

"What was that noise?" Vincent called out.

"Nothing to be concerned about," Yuffie replied.

**End of Chapter**

_**Thank you for reading**_


End file.
